


An Illumination Upon the Hills

by icelovesfire



Category: Beverly Hills 90210 (1990)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Family, Female Friendship, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29612361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icelovesfire/pseuds/icelovesfire
Summary: Following the events of "Red is the Cruelest Colour," London's talented Brenda Walsh has avoided Beverly Hills for the past twelve years. Much to Donna Silver's disappointment, she chose to skip the West Bev tenth year reunion. Her twin Brandon Walsh hasn't been seen since. The combination of one request and an urgent voicemail could change all of that. B/D, B/K, D/D, S/?, A/?
Relationships: Donna Martin/David Silver, Dylan McKay/Brenda Walsh, Kelly Taylor/Brandon Walsh
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

" **They forgot the whole thesis of the show because they didn't want to keep anyone else on and forgot that the show was about** _ordinary kids living extraordinary lives_ **. After season 7 and college, they were extraordinary kids living ordinary lives. It made no sense to us for those who built up the show, so it's just stupid." - Executive Producer Larry Mollins**

xx

Intrusive gray bodies lined the street, concentrating intently with blood orange eyes that gleamed at passersby promenading with purposeful intention.

They peered curiously at weary families heading home in anticipation of a new strenuous week in the office or industry, holding hands of wailing children who requested another lolly whilst dawdling in cacophonous indignation.

Cackling, they dove after both tourists and natives, searching for leftover crumbs discarded by local vendors that then swatted them forward in the opposite direction to prevent thievery of their stock.

Nearly stepping over one of the gray bodies separated from the irksome others, she cursed and decided there were too many damn pigeons.

Fatigue began to creep in, a consequence of the early morning hours spent helping her friend's sister move into a new flat. Despite the weighted blanket dragging on her feet, she pressed on.

She passed grumbling tourists raging about entrance fees to the Eye, having undoubtedly been informed of the attraction's full booking for the evening.

American, she thought, taking in fanny packs and camera straps - the kind of petulant stateside Americans that only proved to embarrass other Americans on the worldwide stage.

Twelve years she spent fighting that stereotype, only to have clueless tourists prove it again and again.

She sighed, shook her head and quickly bypassed the frustrated group hassling the poor bloke who stood in front of the Eye entrance.

Feeling guilty, she began to turn around. Noticing the employee's boss had stepped in to run interference, she resumed her brisk pace.

In the corner of Theatre Square, earlier that Sunday afternoon, the place had buzzed with excitement upon the unveiling of a new Laurence Olivier statue sculpted to depict Olivier's role in _Hamlet_. Directly facing the National Theatre, the actor stood with his sword aimed proudly towards the sky.

She listened to Lord Richard Attenborough speak, captivated by the realization that she was allowed accessibility to the distinguished stage actor who shaped her adolescence with such films as _Jurassic Park_ and the remake of _Miracle on 34th Street_. A rather large grin unabashedly remained on her features during the entire event, not overlooked by colleagues that stood nearby.

She found herself becoming far more engrossed in the unveiling than in the orchestral concert attended the previous week - though the fault lay more with her disappointing date and less with the London Philharmonic Orchestra who performed superbly.

Though the South Bank was not quiet - it was a warm evening in late September that saw Britons and tourists alike doing their best to revel in the last remaining days of summer before the forecasted mild autumn that would assuredly usher in the damp, stiff cold of an English winter - it was tranquil enough that she could wander down the bank of the Thames, pop in her earphones and not be disturbed in her cogitation. She purchased a pasty and a bottle of blackcurrant Ribena from a vendor, beginning to down the liquid as she passed Southbank Centre. Coming upon Gabriel's Wharf, she took a seat on one of its benches, chewed thoughtfully on the pasty and pulled out her Blackberry Curve.

Twenty-three new messages in the last four hours, fifteen of which were voicemails from eight different people.

Recognizing a few familiar numbers from her old theatre group, she listened to those first. Deciding to return to the remaining messages later, she stowed the mobile in the front pocket of her crossbody bag, leaned back on the bench and stared out into the night.

Dark water swirling with hues of sparkling blues and royal purples from floating ships smiled back in her direction, combined with reflections bouncing off of lit buildings.

When she first arrived in the bewitching city, a handful of her fellow thespians persuaded her to join them in a moonlit Thames swim deemed essential for a newcomer.

Though the Thames continued to look inviting, she refused to participate again following a severe cold that set her back for a week.

Finishing the pasty and balling up its wrapper to unsuccessfully toss into the nearby rubbish bin, she wiped her hands of any crumbs and stretched as she stood.

Leaving her jacket unzipped, the woman whose curves shone proudly in a tight black jumpsuit met halfway by a wide silver belt resumed her walk.

Heeled boots clicking quietly against the concrete sidewalk, she crossed under Blackfriars Bridge and strolled lazily along until the Globe caught her peripheral vision.

Pausing momentarily as she did each time she saw the legendary theatre, inquisitive hazel eyes tinted greener or bluer depending on the lighting of a room combed over silver lines shaped into triangles adorning the white building.

They appeared to have finished a show, she noticed as her eyes scanned over the open doors releasing audience members that spoke in rapid excitement of the witnessed performance. She wondered if their sense of wonder matched hers whenever she prepared to get in character on the Globe stage. The theatre was one of her lesser used venues for her acclaimed career, but one of her favorites to visit for another actor's theatrics.

Catching sight of the time through a nearby pub's window, she began to run in the direction of Borough Market.

"There you are!" she heard just outside of her meeting place.

"Sorry, sorry," she replied, dark brunette waves jumping as she came to a standstill, "I know. I'm late."

"Not that late," replied her friend with a laugh. "We've a few minutes until the band sets up."

"We never miss setup," she reminded the man who lacked the ability to tower over her due to his average height. Small in stature herself, she was accustomed to being the shortest one in the room.

"And we still haven't, Bren. No bothers."

"Have you eaten?" asked the man's russet-haired companion, gently taking her wrist.

"I had a pasty on the way over," she began, interrupted in her reply by the beckoning gray eyes of a second man.

"Walsh! You got a minute?" he asked, voice edged in the dialect of the Black Country that contrasted with the first man's slightly posher tone, though neither spoke the Queen's English.

"For you, Howie? Of course. Be right over," she said. "Shane, Katie, I'll be back in a few."

Briefly observing their nodding responses, she hurried to the muscled man unloading barrels of cask ale from the back of a large green van.

"Okay, Howie, I'm here. What's up?" asked Brenda Walsh, eyeing the barrels in trepidation.

She did not drink often, allotting herself only a glass or two of cask ale every few weeks. The choice to avoid alcohol may have been seen as an oddity in the theatre world, but she knew several actors who had chosen the same once introductions were made with their thirties.

It beat waking up before a significant performance with a raging migraine resulting from one night too many of partying, they shared, allowing her the perfect excuse so that no one ever asked the real reason for her mostly dry preference.

"Think you can lend your donnies to help with the unloadin'? Still got a mic in the back the lads need for a sound test before the show starts," Howard Longley pleaded, taking a second to breathe between grunts.

"You've got it," Brenda replied, climbing into the van to retrieve the mic. "Usual place?"

"Yes, thanks a mill," he answered.

Hopping back out onto the street, she hurried into the darkened pub. Ordinarily a family pub, it had been transformed for the evening to cater to an adult crowd bearing more licentious intentions than its usual customers.

"Howie asked me to bring this in," Brenda said to a younger girl standing in the corner.

"Great, thanks," she responded, taking the mic. "How long do you think you'll stay tonight?"

"No rehearsals," Brenda replied, her lips curving into a somewhat relieved smile that the hectic summer of nonstop performances had transitioned into a calmer schedule. Though Brenda loved the thrill of performing, she decided to take an autumn break in order to mentally prepare for the upcoming winter season and its impending new scripts to memorize.

"Then all night?"

"I'll listen to the band play a couple of sets and decide from there," Brenda said.

"Brill," replied the girl, donned in a style that seemed to replicate the fashion of Brenda's adolescence.

Her face scrunched momentarily, praying an inevitable revival would not include low-rise trousers and multi-patterned ensembles better left in embarrassing articles of yesteryear.

"Bren! Hey!" called a figure of green-tipped, shaggy hair and three ear piercings making its way towards her as the girl skipped across the room to initiate a private discussion with one of the musicians setting up on stage, "Howie said you were in here."

"Hiya!" Brenda replied, smiling at her friend, "Shane and Katie are outside."

"Can't tell you how much it means for you three to come to our gigs," said Levi Akers, grinning appreciatively as his amber eyes signaled approval of her ensemble. "What do you think of the hair?" he added, tipping his head so that she could get a closer look.

"I love it. It's very you," Brenda said.

"I'd planned to go purple, but Benji said green would stand out more on stage," he explained, rocking back nervously on cream-colored sandals that stood out vividly against his feet.

"He's right," she nodded, "if they dyed it too dark, you would have blended right in with the equipment."

"It's probably more my color, anyway," Levi said. "Think you'll stay for the whole show?"

"Not sure," Brenda replied. "I told Clara I'd see. It was a long day and I'm pretty knackered. Did you catch the unveiling earlier?"

"Of course," Levi replied, "wasn't going to miss Lord Attenborough, was I? Did you?"

"My darling, of course I did," she drawled in her most dramatic accent, "it's Laurence Olivier, after all."

"Was that meant to be the American South?" Levi asked, tittering.

"Well, the overly stereotyped version of the American South," Brenda grinned, placing the back of her hand to her forehead in a manner that would rival Scarlett O'Hara. "Haven't been over that way too often, but that was much more Margaret Mitchell than you're likely to find in most of the southern states these days - not to say no one sounds like that, because there are people who do -"

"Bren," Levi cut in with a small smile, "you're rambling."

"Oh yeah, sorry," Brenda replied, her cheeks staining pink.

"No bothers," he said, "I just have to get back to the stage so we can get this gig started. Wanted to pop over and say hello first."

"Get going and break a leg - I mean, good luck," she hurriedly corrected, though she caught herself glancing around for falling objects or bad omens that would reportedly follow the forbidden statement.

Watching Levi return to the front of the pub, she walked away herself.

"It took you that long to deliver the mic?" asked Shane when she returned outside, his emerald eyes twinkling, "Katie already called and left a message to see if you needed any help."

"No," Brenda replied, "it only took a minute or two, but Levi wanted to show me his new hair while the band set up. She'll have at least twenty-three other voicemails to battle with."

"Twenty-three?" Shane asked, eyebrows furrowing, "everything okay?"

"I think so," Brenda replied, "guess I'm just really popular."

"Oh yeah, all the media organizations want to talk to London's biggest thespian," Shane teased.

"Yeah, right," Brenda laughed, "can't be the biggest thespian when Emma Thompson exists and that's only one of the people I could mention."

"Okay, so you're a West End actor in a crowd of potentially millions, but close enough," he replied, "you're still well known on the theatre scene."

"As are you, my friend," she commented.

"Brenda! I was starting to get worried," Katie said, rejoining the duo with her arm outstretched to slide around Shane's waist.

"Nothing to worry about, Katie. Just ran into Levi," she assured.

"Oh yeah, he mentioned something about a haircut?" Katie asked.

"Something like that," Brenda grinned.

Howard stood with his hand on the pub doorframe, yelling over the streaming throng of adults clamoring for a good music scene.

"You kids coming in or what? I gotta shut the door soon before we have some concert crashers who didn't pay for their tickets!"

"On our way in, Howie!" Brenda called back, grabbing Katie's arm whose hand linked with Shane's.

"Quite the turnout, isn't it?" Katie whispered, following her friend and husband into the pub Brenda had recently left.

The three took their seats at their usual table, located near enough to the makeshift stage that they could clearly hear the music and distant enough to avoid shouting over the songs.

"It is," Brenda nodded, "about time, too. The band has been working their asses off to get a gig of this magnitude. Assuming their sets run smoothly tonight, this could be just what they need to jumpstart their careers and get enough traction for a music venue. I caught a description of tonight's event in one of the broadsheets, so I'm sure we'll see a lot of people come in to check out what they're all about."

She turned slightly to see three women who looked to be in their twenties gaping in hers and Shane's direction whilst withdrawing playbills from their purses.

"Looks like we have some fans of our own, Shane," Brenda said quietly, discreetly pointing her finger under the table at the oglers in a manner that would prevent them from knowing they were the objects of her pointing.

"Hi, sorry! You're Brenda Walsh and Shane Wachinski, right? The Brenda Walsh who performed in the summer production of _Into the Woods_?" said one of the women who approached cautiously, though she carried a spring in her step.

"That would be me," Brenda smiled, remembering herself at the woman's younger age, "I take it you saw the show?"

"Yes, at least three times! You were brilliant! I've seen so many of your shows, I swear I've lost count. You're just so talented. I know this is a public place and you're off the clock, but could I maybe get an autograph? It's just, I'm doing a course at RADA and I've walked by your picture every day since my program started; they have it right there in the entranceway -"

"Oh, look at that, Shane. We've come full circle. An RADA student is asking me for an autograph," Brenda said quietly enough so that the woman would not hear the interruption.

"Yes, I'd be happy to," she responded to the aspiring actress once the girl paused for a breath. Taking the proffered playbill, she fished out a pen from her bag and poised it over one of the pages.

"Whom should I make it out to?" Brenda asked.

"Oh, it's Georgiana, but my friends call me Georgie," replied the student, eyes brightening at Brenda's agreement. "Thanks a million, I can't wait to tell everyone in class."

"It's no bother," the brunette smiled, "don't get discouraged, okay? We know RADA can be rigorous -" she looked at Shane, who nodded fervently, indubitably reminiscing about long hours spent on the academy's stage, "but it's definitely worth it."

"I won't. Thank you! Sorry to bother you!" Georgie said, bouncing off to rejoin her friends after persuading Shane of a second autograph.

"Remember when that was us?" Brenda asked, observing Georgie giggle with the other women and gloat that she had successfully scored an autograph from the renowned Brenda Walsh.

"Speak for yourself," Shane said cheekily, "I never asked anyone for an autograph."

"Oh, really?" Brenda asked, her eyebrows lifting to her hairline as she prepared to reveal the contradictory story of one evening during their RADA years.

"Don't you dare," he said, emerald eyes anxiously flickering toward his wife.

Katie's curious gaze locked onto Brenda, silently granting her permission to share the previously unknown memory hidden by her husband.

"Oh, too late," Shane said casually, though his relief was palpable, "band's starting."

"I'll tell you later," Brenda promised in response to Katie's blatant disappointment.

She watched Levi, Benji and their fellow musicians introduce themselves to the crowd, which stood silently in contemplation of the assumed newer band during their first guitar chords.

A few verses into the second song, the audience began jumping to the rhythm and could already follow along with the words halfway into the band's set.

Across the room, Howie and his team manned a lively string of inebriated concertgoers who willingly exchanged healthy brain cells for multiple cask ales.

"They sound incredible!" Brenda said, catching Levi's wandering eye to grant a wink in his direction. "This is their best performance yet. The last one was pretty damn great, too, but nowhere close to this."

"Absolutely," Katie agreed, matching Brenda's enthusiasm, "the crowd seems to love them."

"Seems to?" Shane asked with a heavy dose of skepticism. "Babes, they've already had three shirts thrown on stage, two from girls and one from a guy. I think you can say it's pretty definite that the crowd does love them."

The trio's heads bounced along to the captivating music, their feet tapping with each beat.

Dancing enthralled Brenda. She reveled in every style of dance - from swing to waltzes, tangos, hip hop and any other style imaginable.

Unfortunately, her legs were still too sore from her earlier activities to join the crowd.

She inwardly vowed to do so during the next gig, which would assuredly be held in a much larger venue if the jubilation of the evening's crowd accurately predicted Levi and Benji's future success.

"Shane has something to ask you," Katie said, looking pointedly at her husband during a song break as she nodded in Brenda's direction. "Go ahead, babe."

"Bren," Shane stated, immediately turning on his most winsome look that never failed to persuade her of participating in multiple ludicrous stunts since their first shared summer at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, "the new theatre group I told you about that's set to go on tour in California next week is in desperate need of a replacement. Their lead was in a car accident and -"

"Shit, that's terrible," Brenda cut in, noticeably horrified at the poor actor's fate.

"Oh, she's fine, just recently home from hospital and in recovery for the next few weeks so she can't do the show," Shane replied dismissively.

"Shane," Brenda said in a clear warning, instinctively knowing the direction their conversation would head and attempting to forestall his imminent request.

"C'mon, Bren, they need someone who can memorize quickly and no one memorizes as fast as you do."

"Can't do it if it's in LA," she replied firmly, hoping that would end the discussion. "And I don't know what you're talking about; there are plenty of actors that can memorize their lines faster than I can. I'll name at least five."

Shane Wachinski was not so easily deterred.

"They're scheduled for somewhere called Santa Mariana, or is it Santa Marina?"

"Santa Maria," she corrected, "it's on the Central Coast."

"Is that southern California or northern California?" a curious Katie inquired, playing with her husband's jacket sleeve.

"It's between southern and northern. Kinda the forgotten California, I guess, though it does get more tourists than, say, the central portion of the Midwest," Brenda explained. "Two hours outside of LA - or at least, it would be, if you didn't have to deal with the traffic. Three hours outside of San Francisco, but again, traffic. An hour outside of Santa Barbara, assuming there isn't traffic."

"I get the feeling Californians must sit through a lot of traffic," Shane laughed, diagonally stretching out his legs so that they tangled under the table with his inquisitive wife's.

"An hour outside of Santa Barbara? That's about the same as Oxford," Katie replied, failing in her attempt to surreptitiously run a hand across Shane's thigh. "You're from Beverly Hills, right?"

Brenda swallowed roughly.

"Not really. I mean, my formative years were in Minnesota and I only lived in SoCal for four years, so I could hardly be considered a resident. But I've nearly lived here longer than I did Minnesota."

"Do you ever miss LA?" Katie added, looking at her brunette friend, "you sure get a lot more sun out there."

"No," Brenda said abruptly.

"How far is California from Minnesota?" a passing Howie asked, overhearing their conversation on his way out of the storeroom. He rested his elbows on the back of Katie's chair, brown eyes gazing contemplatively at Brenda in anticipation of her response.

"Ah, it's close to two thousand miles, Howie," Brenda said, smiling at the forthcoming reaction that always loomed when conversation arose of the distance from one state to another in comparison to surrounding cities or even continental European countries.

"Jesus."

"Two thousand?" Katie asked, "my god, we could be in Bosnia by that point. Maybe we could all take a trip to Bosnia next spring?"

"Sounds good to me," Brenda said, as Shane agreed.

"Anyway," he continued, "I can give you the packet of information I got from Theo. They'll start in Santa Maria, make their way up the coast to San Luis Obispo, finish in San Francisco and stop into Santa Rosa for a visit before returning to London. It should take no more than a month or two, which gives you plenty of time to kick jet lag so you can start the winter season fresh."

"I'll think about it, Shane, okay?" Brenda said, her tone tinted in apprehension, silently beseeching him to switch topics.

"Okay," he nodded, "just as long as you think fast. Theo wants to meet tomorrow afternoon to discuss the matter further."

"Shane!" Brenda gasped, "that's too soon!"

"Sorry, Bren. They're leaving in a week and you're the only actress of your caliber who isn't already involved in an autumn production. Theo's seen loads of your shows. He knows your work well."

"How is it that you've asked for a favor and yet you come out looking like you're doing me one?" Brenda asked incredulously.

"It's a gift," he responded with a jacketed shrug.

"Well, since you've left me no choice," she hesitated, "I'll meet with Theo, but I'm not making any promises until I know more details."

"Ah, you're the best, Bren," he said, briefly removing an arm planted around Katie to pat Brenda's hand across the table.

"Yeah, yeah," she replied, managing a smile through her frustration.

"So how did the date go?" Katie asked, engaged in nonverbal communication with Shane that seemed to indicate a purposeful change in the subject, in addition to an obvious eagerness of simply wanting information.

"Awful!" Brenda said, her dark brown locks shaking in response. "He fell asleep."

"He - what?" Katie responded with an open jawline, quickly glancing at her husband. "Didn't you go to the symphony?"

"Yes, we did," Brenda replied, "and he fell asleep in the middle of a movement, probably their best movement of the night. Began snoring right there and everything. It was mortifying!"

Despite her consistent exhaustion, Brenda stayed through the entire set and left only when the band began to pack up their equipment. Assuring Shane that she would indeed meet with Theo the following day and accepting a breakfast invitation from Katie, she headed in the direction of Southwark Station to take the tube nearby enough to Chelsea so that she could walk home more quickly than going on foot the entire way back.

Though a walk of that length rarely bothered her, Brenda strongly disbelieved that she would successfully complete the route without falling asleep on her feet.

As did the Wachinskis, it would seem, since they offered to give her a lift home that she simultaneously thanked them for and rejected.

While her driving skills had never been up to par, Brenda did enjoy feeling the control of the wheel and sometimes found herself missing private transportation. Owning a car in London was expensive and with the various modes of public transportation available, it would simply be futile.

Waddling into the lavender terraced house sat upon Chelsea's colorful row, she slipped out of her boots. Preparing a bowl of warm water for her now aching feet, she replaced her jumpsuit with silk pajamas and retrieved the mercurial mobile from her bag as her feet enjoyed a soothing soak.

The phone's notifications boldly proclaimed twenty-seven messages, having evidently acquired a few more whilst obscured in the pub.

Waiting until morning to listen would unquestioningly result in further voicemails. Attempting to decipher who would wish to speak with her that exigently only heightened her bafflement.

The best way to find out was to plunge in, she acknowledged with an enervated sigh.

"Hi Bren, it's Donna. Sorry it's been a few months; things are crazy here with the kids and - well, that's no excuse - anyway, call me? Or we can text, whichever, I'm getting a little more used to it but we're on the limited texting plan so the kids won't be spoiled. David says hi. Love you, bye!"

She filed a mental memo to return Donna's call at some point the following day, perhaps in the interval between the planned breakfast with Katie and meeting with the theatre troupe to discuss Santa Maria.

The prospect of returning to California neither delighted nor irritated her, she realized with a start, permitted she could successfully avoid Los Angeles - or, more specifically, its elite neighborhood of Beverly Hills that contained both the best and worst moments of her adolescence.

Living there only four years with the last twelve spent across the ocean in England, California seemed more a blurry dream than a legitimate and rather significant part of her life.

Contrary to her dismissive statement told to Katie in the pub, California was indeed significant, a notable section in the future autobiography of Brenda Walsh detailing the perspective of a Minnesota native adapting to the hills of the Golden State and its city of Los Angeles that boasted four million less than the seven million individuals residing in London alone.

Though she and Donna Silver initially lost contact following Brenda's international move, helped along by her inability to fly back to Beverly Hills for her old best friend's wedding during a particularly brutal theatrical season, they reconnected in their later twenties shortly before the birth of Donna's oldest child - and remained in contact, despite Donna's dismay when Brenda chose to not appear at West Beverly High's tenth year reunion.

Donna and her husband David frequently discussed visiting London, but their dialogues had not yet resulted in action, largely due to the inconvenience of a lengthy, transatlantic flight with three small children.

"Brenda? It's Kelly. Got your number off David. Call me when you get this message, okay?"

Brenda stared at the phone, replaying the message twice more until she was satisfied her former best friend Kelly Taylor had truly tried to call, instead of a prankster using Kelly's name.

It had been a long time since she spoke to the blonde, longer still since either of them had wanted to speak to the other.

"Brenda Walsh, long time no see! It's your boy Bobby. Been awhile since we chatted. I know the summer was crazy for you. Wanted to check in and see how you're doing. Give my best to your parents. Love you."

Immediately returning Bobby Walsh's call despite her city's late hour, she spent the next forty-two minutes speaking with her older cousin about the happenings in his life and her own. Ending the conversation when she began to yawn continuously, Brenda played another voicemail.

"Hey, it's Steve. Kelly said she tried to call. Didn't know you two were talking? Not really into the calling thing so text me when you get the chance. Want to know your schedule; Maddie's asking about seeing her Auntie and we might head that way. Catch you later."

She added a note to text Steve Sanders of her minimal calendar, though she would deny telling him about California until she knew for certain that Theo would not be able to find anyone else to join the group.

Brenda could feel her much-deserved autumn break slipping quickly through her fingers, for she would be unable to deny Theo if he were really that desperate in securing a replacement.

And Shane knew it, too.

She cursed the name of Shane Wachinski.

"It's Katie. We're wondering where you went - oh, never mind, I see you. Bye!"

Deleting Katie's message due to the already asked and answered question, she skipped over three messages from reporters asking for interviews and listened to the fourth.

"Hey girl, it's Val, but you already knew that. Fancy a trip to Cork? That's how you say it out there, right? Anyway, talk to you soon, hopefully about travel plans!"

Brenda laughed. She always fancied a trip to Ireland when the occasion arose and it would be Valerie Malone's first visit, which meant she could use an experienced visitor to assist in her tour of the forty shades of green that sat across the sea.

Tearing off a piece of paper to jot down Val's plan for further consideration, she saved the message and continued on.

"It's Kelly again. Look, your mom's been trying to call."

Bewildered, she checked her missed messages and saw that none were from one Cindy Walsh who would be in the midst of her busy day ten thousand miles eastward in Melbourne, where Brenda's parents were relocated following five years in Hong Kong.

She and her mother always spoke on Saturdays, when phone rates between the two countries were slightly less expensive. Though the previous afternoon's planned conversation needed to be rescheduled, the brunette would have known if Cindy indeed struggled to get in contact.

"Brenda," said Kelly's increasingly importunate voice in a third message preceded by four silent calls and a fifth that consisted of only heavy breathing, "look, I got a new phone, lost all my numbers and I need the one for Jim and Cindy, which either nobody else has or this is some trick to get me to call you. But whatever, this is really important, okay?"

Kelly's voice began to crack, alerting Brenda further and deepening her curiosity of the purportedly urgent matter.

"Brenda, listen to me. They've found him."


	2. Chapter 2

" **I ended up with Dylan? I thought I ended up with - didn't I marry Brandon? I thought I married Brandon!" - Jennie Garth, TV Guide interview in 2014**

xx

Cool, copper pennies.

In her first semester at California University, directly before a presentation, she overheard an anxious classmate speaking of tasting pennies.

Yet, as Brenda stared at the sitting room wall with her heart racing loudly enough that she swore they could hear the palpitations over in Soho, she didn't taste pennies.

No, what she tasted were giant-ass, bronzed half-dollar Sacagawea coins.

"What do you mean, they found him?"

"Brenda?"

"Kelly, you said they found him?"

"Yeah, Bren. They found him," Kelly Taylor replied, her relieved tone indicating the likelihood of a smile eight hours behind in Beverly Hills.

"Where?" Brenda whispered, closing her eyes tightly whilst a strangled sob reverberated in her throat.

After believing the present moment would never come, Brenda elected to pinch herself to ensure their conversation was based in reality. She dreamt often of a similar discussion, but never did those dreams feature high school best friend Kelly, the woman with whom she shared a rocky past.

It may as well have been a scene from a play, Brenda thought. The blonde who hurt her more than any other in their days at West Beverly High and two semesters at California University now called to tell her the greatest news of Brenda's life.

Observing a blotchy mark left on her skin from her thumb and forefinger, she assumed the call must be real.

"In Bouaké."

"Where?" she repeated, confused.

"It's a city in the Ivory Coast, apparently. Some locals discovered him among rebel forces and recognized him from the posters. I guess a guy from the UN had visited back in June, so thank God someone had a connection and contacted them immediately."

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know, Bren."

"Is he still in Bouaké?"

"No, they airlifted him to Vandenberg."

"Have you seen him?"

"Can't," Kelly said, bitterness filling her tone, "family only."

"I don't get it," Brenda said, "how do you know all of this? Why didn't they call me?" she hesitated, her throat aching, "I thought I was his emergency contact."

"You are, Bren. They tried to call. His contacts list still has your old number."

"Oh," Brenda responded, kicking herself retroactively for changing her mobile number, despite the necessity at the time.

She particularly berated herself for neglecting to share her new number with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, though it seemed hopeless after three long years.

"Well, they could have called Mom and Dad," Brenda added through her frustration.

"That's why I'm calling, Bren. They need Jim and Cindy's number."

"Why don't they have the number? Landline's been the same since they moved to Melbourne and they both have mobiles."

"Mobiles? Are you telling me Jim and Cindy Walsh live in separate mobile homes Down Under? God, if your wholesome parents couldn't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us?" an appalled Kelly inquired.

"I mean, cellphones," Brenda hurriedly corrected before Kelly could get the wrong idea and pass along misinformation to the rest of their group, which would assuredly be communicated to her bewildered parents.

Barring one brief emotional attachment between Cindy and a former boyfriend when the family first moved to Beverly Hills from Minnesota, neither Jim nor Cindy ever gave any indication of being unhappy in their lengthy marriage.

Brenda knew she was lucky. After the divorce boom of the nineties, one could rarely find a set of parents who chose to stay together in Beverly Hills.

Kelly's own mother gained multiple divorces, before remarrying Mel Silver for the final time following their son David's wedding.

"Oh. Right. That makes much more sense. I mean, Jim Walsh doesn't really strike me as a mobile home kinda guy, not that there's anything wrong with that," she rushed.

"Kelly," Brenda said, working to get their conversation back on track, "why don't they have my parents' numbers?"

"I don't know, Bren. They just don't, I guess."

"So the FBI called you to get them?" Brenda asked, her confusion deepening the more Kelly spoke.

Perplexity never mixed well with fatigue and she felt both in spades.

"Ah, no. Not exactly," Kelly said nervously.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly?'"

"Well, see, when they couldn't get through to the main emergency contact and they couldn't get through to your parents, well, they tried his third emergency contact."

"Steve?" Brenda asked.

"No," Kelly answered.

"Andrea?"

"No."

"David?"

"No. Bren, they, um," Kelly said, taking a deep breath that evolved into a dramatic pause.

"Kelly, just spit it out."

"They called Dylan," the blonde replied, her tone turning three words into one.

The Sacagawea coins quickly became wads of Benjamin Franklins that threatened Brenda's ability for oxygen.

Sputtering, she dropped the phone and sprinted to the kitchen. Filling a glass with cool water from the pitcher, she gulped it down before inhaling deeply.

Inwardly, Brenda scolded herself to keep it together.

"Bren? Brenda? Brenda Walsh! Are you still there?"

"Yeah, Kel, I'm here," Brenda replied, plucking her searing mobile off of the carpeted floor.

"So, Dylan told you," she continued, mustering what little calm remained in her possession.

"I was over with Sammy when he got the call," Kelly explained. "He had the phone on speaker to help Sammy with a project for preschool. As soon as Dylan realized the reason for the call, he took it off speaker and went to the other room."

"And then he told you," Brenda repeated, her tone bordering on acerbic.

"I mean, I was standing right there, Bren."

"You got my number off David, right? Did Dylan ask around for it? Or did he not feel the need to call and tell me himself?" she asked, her question laced with an equal dosage of pain and fury.

"He didn't think you wanted to hear from him, Bren," Kelly explained gently.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Dylan didn't bother to tell me that my own twin brother has been found alive after three damn years because he was worried I wouldn't talk to him?" Brenda inquired, the acidulous words burning through her throat.

"Considering how long it's been since you have talked to him, you can't exactly blame him, Bren," Kelly replied defensively. "I mean, you only communicate regularly with Steve and the Silvers. Even Andrea says it's been awhile."

"Look, Kelly, I don't need a lecture about my poor communication skills with people I knew in high school, okay?" Brenda said irritably.

"That's all we are to you?" Kelly asked, evidently hurt, "Just people you knew at West Beverly?"

"Yes. No. God, I don't know," Brenda responded, her thoughts as jumbled as her words.

A rattled Kelly hesitatingly continued.

"Bren, look, maybe you should just call Dylan. I can give you his number -"

"You can tell Dylan McKay," Brenda said, clutching the infuriating mobile so tightly against her ear that she would assuredly awaken the following morning with a searing red mark engraved on her facial features, "to go straight to hell."

"Brenda," Kelly sighed.

"Kel, it's really late and I've had a long day," Brenda said, initiating a fake yawn that rapidly transformed into a legitimate one. "Thank you for telling me about Brandon. I'll call Mom and Dad in the morning."

"Wait, Bren, before you go. The detective who opened Brandon's case retired last year. You'll want to contact Jay Sutherfield, okay?" Kelly said over the loudspeaker, reading out a phone number for the FBI detective that Brenda hurriedly plugged into her digital address book, "He'll give you the number for his contact at Vandenberg. And, Bren? Can I ask a favor?"

"Depends on the favor, Kelly," she replied.

"I just - you're there in London, Jim and Cindy are all the way in Australia and Brandon's here, in the state - up the coast a bit, but still here. A Walsh is back in California, Bren; that's pretty monumental. You've made it very clear that you're never gonna return. We're in California, too, and we are Brandon's family - your family, Jim and Cindy's family," Kelly hurriedly added. "It's ridiculous that the FBI won't let us see him just because we don't share his blood or have the same last name."

"I don't know what you want me to do about that, Kel. I'm not FBI."

"Bren, please just ask Detective Sutherfield if there's a chance they'll change their mind? Dylan's going crazy over here."

"Good," Brenda said.

"Bren, please?" Kelly asked, dragging out the second word.

"Okay," she sighed, "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Brenda," Kelly said, her relieved voice containing more pep than should be permitted at 2:15am Greenwich Mean Time.

"Goodnight, Kelly," Brenda said pointedly.

"Night, Bren."

Climbing under her patterned duvet twenty minutes after they ended the transatlantic conversation that would have cost a fortune only a few years prior, Brenda lay staring at the bedroom ceiling.

Since news came of Brandon's unexpected disappearance the year after he chose to attend their West Bev reunion without her, Brenda frequently chided herself for her inability to tap into their supposed twin connection and figure out where the hell he went.

The first year was torture, the second vexing. By the third, she maintained such a busy schedule that she barely found time to ponder whether her brother would ever return.

She slept fitfully, visions penetrating her nightmares of the possible hardships Brandon faced whilst in captivity.

Brenda reached for her twin, watching in horror as he vanished in a thick haze of smoke.

She awoke with a start, glanced blearily at the clock and groaned that only an hour had passed since she initially fell asleep.

In the morning, Brenda dragged herself out of bed to meet with Katie in their favorite café, her inner joy at her brother's reappearance overshadowing the severe lassitude of a sleepless night.

To Katie's credit, although she could tell her friend's mind lay with other matters as they spoke of trivial subjects regarding music and prospective casting decisions of the winter program, she did not press the issue as her husband would have indubitably done.

Katie figured that when Brenda could bring herself to speak of whatever bothered her, she would - for Katie Wachinski, formerly of the distinguished line of Northam, had grown up in a family that found discomfiture with emotion.

Her husband's family took an entirely different approach, encouraging each of their children to express themselves openly.

Despite Katie's break with Northam traditions and her own desire for empathy, she understood that sometimes, people needed to hold onto their emotions before allowing others to hear them.

Still, she noted, the heavy look in Brenda's eyes did appear considerably different than at the concert the previous evening and Katie knew it was not due to drink, or lack thereof.

"Text me when you get home, yeah?" she asked, lightly grabbing her friend's fingers in a goodbye outside of Leicester Square.

"Of course," Brenda nodded, giving the woman a quick hug before departing on her planned fifteen minute walk to the theatre.

A message sent from Shane earlier in the day instructed Brenda to head for Bloomsbury, in Camden. She went by way of Chinatown, pensively staring at the vivid teals and reds of the Friendship Gate.

Ironic, she thought, remembering her conversation with Kelly about her own shattered friendships, as if she were the only one to break them.

Brenda found it easier than expected to reconnect with Donna and consequently gained a rejuvenated relationship with the youngest member of their old group - David Silver, Donna's beloved husband of nearly a decade.

She and Steve never lost contact. Once Steve Sanders decided to plant himself in someone else's life, it was difficult to persuade him out of it.

Andrea's busy schedule rivaled Brenda's, as an editor forThe Los Angeles Timesduring the day and a virtually single mother of an almost teenage girl by night.

Although Andrea Zuckerman held joint custody with her ex-husband Jesse Vasquez over their daughter Hannah, his congressional work frequently took him across the country, leaving the curly-haired brunette to raise Hannah alone.

And the others - well, she didn't want to think about the others, though she supposed she did owe Nat Bussichio a call.

Arriving half an hour earlier than anticipated, Brenda chose an empty bench near Russell Square's fountain and pulled out her mobile with shaky hands.

Attempting several deep breaths, she dialed.

"Jay Sutherfield."

"Mr. Sutherfield, this is Brenda Walsh. I heard you spoke with Dylan McKay and that you've been trying to get in touch with my parents to tell them about Brandon?"

"Oh, hello, Brenda," came the smooth voice on the other end of the line, "Yes, we need the numbers for Jim and Cindy Walsh. It would appear yours is disconnected and Mr. McKay was the next emergency contact available in Mr. Walsh's phone. Had he not picked up, we would've tried someone called Taylor, or was it Zuckerman?"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Brenda replied, "I got a new number and it didn't seem important to tell the bureau since it'd been so long without any news."

"That's understandable," said the detective in an accent that hinted at the northeastern side of the United States.

"Can I ask why you need my parents' numbers? I'm fairly certain Mom and Dad shared all the information you guys asked for when your department opened Brandon's case."

"Yes, that would be a clerical mix-up, I'm afraid," replied Jay Sutherfield. "One of our former secretaries misplaced Brandon Walsh's file before we could complete the data entry. She has since been fired and the file located, but your parents' numbers don't seem to be anywhere."

"Oh," Brenda responded, concerned that an error of that magnitude could occur in a building as prestigious as the FBI, "I'll give their numbers to you again, but you better not lose them this time."

"We won't," he assured.

"Mr. Sutherfield," Brenda continued after she shared the requested information, "is it true that Brandon is at Vandenberg?"

"Yes," Jay replied, "we're keeping an eye on his mental state before he can go home. We realize his last home was here in Washington, but when Mr. Walsh was asked where he'd like to be returned to, he said California. Vandenberg had the space."

"Well," Brenda said, "I mean, you know that both myself and my parents are a plane ride away from Brandon."

"Yes, you've certainly got some distance between you."

"Yeah," Brenda said, "and I guess there's a rule that only family can see him?"

"In Mr. Walsh's case, yes, given the extent of his injuries. It varies," Jay said.

"Since you're fully aware that I can't just drop in to Vandenberg on a moment's notice and it would take my parents at least a day to fly over, if they're lucky; two, if they're not, I was wondering -"

"Yes?" Jay prompted as she hesitated.

"It's just, Brandon has family in Beverly Hills that are right there and I know they aren't blood, but I really hate the idea of him being alone in Lompoc and I know that they're probably taking good care of him at Vandenberg, but after three years away from everyone, I think he needs -"

"Ms. Walsh?" he cut in.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"I'll see if we can make an exception, okay?"

Brenda smiled, having successfully completed Kelly's favor.

Kelly Taylor owed her.

"Thank you, Mr. Sutherfield," she said.

"I'm about to check whether I can do you a favor, Ms. Walsh," Jay said, "so I'd like if you could do me one."

"What's that?" Brenda asked cautiously.

"Call me Jay."

"Oh," she replied in relief, "okay, Jay. Just as long as you call me Brenda."

"Sounds like a plan, Brenda."

"Please keep me updated on Brandon's condition," she said, struggling against an impending breakage in her voice.

"Will do. Let me give you the number for Lonnie Brady. He heads up the team at Vandenberg."

"Great, thanks," Brenda replied, briefly placing the phone on speaker so she could key in Staff Sergeant Brady's contact.

"Anything else?" Jay asked.

"Not at the moment, no," Brenda said. "Have a good day."

"Thank you, Brenda. You do the same."

Ending her conversation with the detective just in time to run over to the theatre, Brenda arrived gasping for air.

"You alright?" she heard from a family walking their dog.

The brunette nodded with a small smile and mentally declared a second run in two days a horrible idea.

At least Theo seemed to be a few minutes late himself, allowing time to calm her beating heart before he arrived.

It would certainly not help in their first meeting to let Theo think her heart literally raced because of him.

"Brenda Walsh! Ah, yes, I recognize you from your magnificent performance this summer, though I must say that you're a lot less glowy off of the stage."

Turning towards a springy lad who looked to be Brenda's age or a few years older, she smiled.

"Theo, I take it?"

"Yes, I am Theo Fletcher," he replied, extending his arms upward in dramatic fashion, "and you are the Brenda Walsh who is standing before me in seemingly great health here on this beautiful Monday."

"Shane didn't mention you're a fan," Brenda said, laughing slightly.

"My darling, who wouldn't be a fan of your work? You're simply exquisite and to think that we may have never seen you perform if you hadn't come out this way -"

"Oh, so you've read the bio?" she asked casually.

"Yes, of course, in a playbill before the show began," he dismissed. "California's loss was our gain and now you've come full circle by agreeing to do this tour. Can't tell you how grateful I am."

"Hang on," Brenda replied, holding up both hands, "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

Theo's delighted expression became confused.

"But, I thought; Shane said that -" he stuttered, nervously wiping his hands on faded jeans.

"Did Shane tell you I agreed to do the tour?" Brenda asked patiently.

"Yes," Theo replied, nodding fervently, "he did."

"I can't believe him!" Brenda said. "I told him I'd think about it and meet with you to discuss more information, but I didn't finalize anything."

"Oh," he said quietly, "maybe I misheard him, my mistake."

"I doubt it, knowing Shane," Brenda said - and she did, quite well.

"So you won't do it?" Theo asked dejectedly.

"I'm considering the idea. Tell me more."

"Well," he said, brightening considerably at her request, "I take it Shane already told you the planned route?"

Brenda nodded.

"Right then," Theo said, clapping his hands together. "We're meant to be there for two months, holding different performances, seeing the sights, so it would be great to have someone who's been to them and maybe dropping in to a class or two at the universities - wait, they call them community colleges, right?" he paused, his expression befuddled.

"Depends," Brenda said.

"That's confusing. Anyway," he continued in a thick accent that may have come from Northern Ireland, though she couldn't be sure, "Lavinia's ticket is already booked. It's honestly a nightmare to get a refund, much more convenient for a rebooking in someone else's name. We really need someone with a passport who can learn the material quickly. Shane mentioned you have a passport and everyone knows your memorization skills are legendary."

"Are they?" the brunette asked with a smile.

"Yes, legendary," Theo repeated. "Shane did say you'd prefer to avoid the LA area and I can assure you that we will not be going anywhere near it. We've a flight booked from Heathrow to San Diego, with a stop in Denver - that's in Colorado; wait, I just learnt that today, but you might already know."

"I do," Brenda replied. "I've never been out that way, though."

"Oh, I hear Colorado is beautiful, but it's only about fifteen minutes in the airport, so we won't be able to see any of the state outside of the plane or the airport window. There's about an hour's layover in San Diego before we connect for Santa Barbara. The tour itself begins in Santa Maria, which I understand is almost three hours away from Los Angeles."

"Without traffic," Brenda noted.

"Without traffic," he amended, "though surely you've seen how bad the traffic can get here when they close the Thames."

Brenda laughed.

"Tell me about the schedule," she continued, hazel eyes locked with Theo's excited expression, "do we get any time off?"

"Yes," he replied, "you'll have Saturday mornings and Sundays free. We'll mainly use Friday nights to bond after rehearsals Monday through Thursday, but you might be able to get one or two of those."

"And if I wanted to go, say, twenty minutes away from Santa Maria?" she asked.

"You're welcome to do so, provided you have access to outside transportation."

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Brenda replied, unconcerned.

"So does that mean you'll do it?" Theo asked, his anxious gaze combing over her purple heather blazer.

"On one condition," she said, the corners of her lips lifting in slow motion.

"Yeah?"

"That dropping into the classes part you mentioned. We won't be teaching them, right?"

This time, Theo laughed, smiled and informed her they would leave the following week.

Upon agreeing to join the theatre troupe and having received her new agenda for rehearsals taking place before the date of their flight, Brenda left giddier than she expected after meeting with Theo.

Satisfied that she simultaneously found a way to visit Brandon and to prove Kelly Taylor wrong, she ducked into a corner shop to begin purchasing travel essentials.

Still, she couldn't help but be disappointed that her glorious autumn break lasted the whole of two weeks and it was all Shane's damn fault.

Partly Brandon Walsh's, but more so Shane Wachinski's.

She debated whether to call the Silvers or send a text to Steve and inform them of the news. Sharing her travel plans would inevitably lead to requests about visiting Beverly Hills that she yearned to avoid.

Yet, she would not be able to successfully leave them out of the loop without facing repercussions later on.

Brenda decided to rip off the plaster.

She messaged Steve of news to share that could only be done verbally, requesting for him to please call her despite understanding his texting preference.

Preparing to call Donna, she was shocked to see Steve's immediate incoming call.

"Steve?"

"Yo, Brenda Walsh!" said the former frat boy cheerfully, "It's been ages!"

"We texted last weekend, Steve," Brenda reminded her friend.

"Yes and that was ages ago," Steve said.

She shook her head and let out a small giggle.

"So, what's up?" he asked.

"Did you hear about Brandon?" she inquired.

"Brandon?" Steve asked, his voice unsteady, "No, I didn't hear anything about Brandon. What happened?"

"They found him, Steve!" she replied exuberantly.

"They - what? Holy hell, Bren. Is he okay?"

"I talked to the FBI detective on his case and I think he is, but there's apparently some extensive injuries so they're keeping him at Vandenberg until they're sure he's good to leave," Brenda answered.

"I gotta tell Andrea and Donna and David and Dylan and Kelly and Nat and -"

"I was about to call Donna," she cut in. "Dylan and Kelly already know."

"They know?" Steve asked skeptically.

"Yeah, Kelly is the one who told me," Brenda said.

"When did she tell you?"

"That's what she tried to call me about, Steve."

"Kelly Taylor has known for a whole two days that my best friend Brandon is alive and she didn't tell me?" Steve asked, clearly annoyed.

"You'll have to talk to her about that, Steve," Brenda said, reluctant to cause a rift between Steve and anyone, even if that anyone went by the name of Kelly Taylor.

"Oh, I will. And then I'll kick Dylan's ass," Steve said, his usual cheery voice coated in thick resentment.

"I'll join you," Brenda said.

"It's really great news about Brandon, Bren. I swear I'd nearly given up hope."

"Me too, Steve," Brenda said.

"Is that the reason you wanted me to call?" Steve asked.

"I need a reason to talk to my friend?"

"You do when that friend prefers texting and you know it, too," he replied. "It's just much quicker, with Maddie's schedule and everything."

"Oh, Steve, not the kid card," she said with a sigh.

"Yes, the kid card, your favorite kid," he said.

"Don't let the Silvers hear you say that," Brenda replied teasingly.

"Oh please, we've been friends way longer than you've been friends with Donna and clearly my kid takes precedence."

She laughed, relieved that while many things changed frequently in her life, Steve Sanders never did.

"Sorry, Bren, gotta get back to work soon. I'm on morning break."

"Right. Yeah. So," she said.

"Right yeah so what?" Steve asked.

"Steve, hang on, I'm telling you!"

"Well, hurry up, woman!"

"Fine. I'm coming out to California."

There was stunned silence on the other line, followed by a resounding whoop.

"Brenda! You mean it? You're coming back?" he asked.

"No, Steve, I'm coming _out_. I'll be in the state for two months, but I'll definitely be returning to London."

"Ah, well, good enough," he said. "When should I pick you up?"

"Pick me up?" Brenda asked.

"Yeah, at LAX."

"Oh, Steve, I'm not going out there."

"But you said -"

"I said I'll be in California, Steve."

"Right, and LAX is in California last time I checked, Brenda, or as we like to call it, SoCal which is clearly the best side on the best coast."

"Steve, I'll be going out there with a theatre group led by one of my friend's friends and we'll be hitting Santa Maria up to Santa Rosa."

"Brenda Walsh," Steve said sternly, "you mean to tell me, your oldest friend, that you will be all the way out here in California for a total of two months and don't intend to come down to your old stomping ground here in the gorgeous Beverly Hills once?"

"Technically, Val is my oldest friend," she pointed out.

"Bren!" he said.

"Or Brandon, if you want to get really technical."

"Brenda!"

"I just don't see why I need to come down to LA, Steve," she sighed.

"This is about Dylan, isn't it?" Steve asked, his voice softening.

"No," she replied firmly.

"Three million people in LA, about 30-k in Beverly Hills. You're more likely to run into Freddie Prinze Jr."

"Oh and Freddie spends a lot of his time at the Peach Pit, does he?" Brenda asked.

"Look, Bren, we know something happened in London, okay? You two can't keep avoiding each other forever," Steve said.

"Who's avoiding?" Brenda asked. "We just haven't talked since I left for London and he started doing Val."

"Yeah, right, Bren," he replied, "that's why we got a letter from him with the address of your old flat and why you told Brandon and Kelly before their failed wedding that they could meet up with the both of you if they made it over that way for their honeymoon. Look, whatever the hell happened out there, it hadda've been almost ten years ago because that's when Dylan came home and he hasn't left since, except for his annual trip to Baja. You have mutual friends and those friends have kids who love you and Dylan. Can't you both let it go? We miss you, Bren. I miss you. California misses you. The sun misses you. Don't you miss the sun?"

"We do get sun here, Steve. I know we don't see it as often as you Angelenos and we definitely get way more rain, but there is sun in London. There's beaches in the UK, too, believe it or not. And I don't know what you're talking about," Brenda added stiffly, attempting to keep all of her inner turmoil from reflecting in her voice, "I hardly know Dylan McKay."

"Sure, Bren," he said.

"Can we just drop it?" she asked.

"Fine. It's dropped. And hey, don't get me wrong, I love the girl, but who wasn't doing Val?"

"Steve!" Brenda said, giggling through her shock. After a moment's pause, she wondered how the blunt, frankly inappropriate and yet simultaneously truthful remark typical of a dialogue with Steve Sanders still managed to surprise her.

"It's nothing she doesn't already know, Bren. Valerie Malone loves to have a good time. She has my full admiration for it. If I didn't have Maddie -"

"Bye, Steve," she said through her laughing fit.

"Text me all the places this tour is taking you and the exact dates you'll be in each, okay? I'll be damned if me and Mads miss you while you're out here just because you're too stubborn to drive south."

"Steve, I don't drive," Brenda reminded the blond. "Even if I did, there's no way my California license would be valid after all of this time, my UK licence has expired since I never use it and I won't be able to get an IDP before I leave."

"And I don't suppose you'll let me give you the red carpet welcome back treatment and be your chauffeur into good 'ole Beverly Hills?" he asked, determined to persuade her.

"Bye, Steve!" she said.

"Okay, okay, bye, Bren."

She immediately followed up on his request, texting him her detailed itinerary and the weekend she planned to visit Brandon.

If Brandon could only have family visit and she, Brenda Walsh, his biological twin sister dropped in, surely they couldn't object to Steve and potentially his daughter coming along.

Then again, depending on how poorly Brandon felt, perhaps they could sway one of the troupe members to sit for eight-year-old Madeline Sanders.

Though Maddie would undoubtedly love to see her uncle Brandon and he in turn would inevitably wish to see her, Brenda also knew that neither Brandon nor Steve would want the little girl to experience anything that may be considered uncomfortable.

And paying a call to Brandon Walsh, presumably stuck in a hospital bed at an Air Force Base after a three-year kidnapping by Ivorian rebel forces for his investigative reporting with The Washington Post during the height of the country's bloody civil war, likely fell along those lines.


	3. Chapter 3

**"He's saying what would happen if Brenda came back from her summer with Roy Randolph and came back to season six? I thought about it ...** _She's had great success in England_ **; I mean, again, the thesis of the show being ordinary kids living extraordinary lives, she's gonna come back with some chops and some - some meat on her. And I think what's gonna happen is she's gonna end up getting cast in something, while her and Dylan are starting up again." - Larry Mollin, Beverly Hills Show Podcast in June 2020**

xx

Ruddy Steve Sanders and his damn goading.

She trudged through the city, rose-colored wellies slapping against slick pavement.

Nine straight days of decent weather now discarded because of one phone call with an endlessly energetic blond five thousand miles away.

It was, after all, Steve Sanders who began a rain dance lasting at least three.

Though Londoners were still in their second day of a recent rainfall, forecasts predicted more rain the following day and through the rest of the week.

Whilst holding her mug of coffee earlier that day, Brenda glared at ITV's morning presenter who shared the unwanted report. Feeling no ill effects from an expression unable to be seen through a television screen, the host continued on in light chatter.

Rain ordinarily left her unbothered, but after listening to Steve, she mistakenly checked LA's weather in comparison and thus darkened her temperament.

Mentally reminding herself to convert the seventy degree weather to Celsius after twelve years of everyone else's temperature scale, Brenda scowled.

Her gloating friend undoubtedly drove with his convertible top down that morning, for LA read as twenty-one degrees Celsius. Seventy and sunny, with a prediction of consistent warm weather - a far cry from her side of the ocean.

Unlike Steve's joy ride, Brenda managed to jump away from an incoming bus in time to avoid becoming more drenched by a torrential downpour angling off of its roof. She eyed the dry individuals sitting through the tinted windows and considered the possibility of smacking Steve the moment she saw him.

Bearing an affable disposition, Theo Fletcher arrived at mid-week rehearsal clearly reveling in the rain. He carried no umbrella, neglected a raincoat and instead tilted his head upward to bask in the glistening raindrops that slapped upon his person.

"Alright?" Theo asked.

Brenda moved from her spot against the entranceway, allowing Theo access to open the door.

"I guess someone is pleased about this weather," she said, peering curiously at the theatre director through her oversized hood that concurrently allowed for protection from the rain and obscured her vision.

"You aren't?" Theo asked, "It's lovely! Rainy days without the bitter cold are so refreshing, don't you think? Autumn is the best time for rain. Spring showers are still frosty and you can't have summer without a little sun."

"Well," she answered, contemplating his descriptive seasonal comparison, "I mean, I would probably feel a bit better about it if I hadn't decided to check the weather back in California."

"Oh," he replied knowingly, "Lots of sun, I suppose?"

"Yes," she nodded, "too much sun."

"Too much sun?" he asked, "Is there such a thing?"

"There is when Steve Sanders is involved," Brenda specified, conveniently ignoring that Melbourne's weather report indicated similar weather for Jim and Cindy Walsh.

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"Dead on."

Housed in an historical, dilapidated building weathered over many centuries of dramatic performances witnessed by royal and peasant alike, the theatre soon filled with actors either rushing to dry themselves off or engaging in pleasant discussions about the climate. They agreed to unanimously cross fingers and toes for a clear sky on the day of their departure to a country few of the group visited previously. Brenda appreciated the hope they all carried, though a flight without precipitation seemed impossible.

Having rehearsed for over a month, the others were well practiced in their roles. Brenda, whose eminent theatre credits far outshined the rest, still found herself intimidated. She jumped straight in, quickly memorizing parts, cues and everything in between. Brenda even offered to mentor some of the newer actors, which simply delighted Theo further.

Among four scripts she received when joining the troupe - four mini scripts for four cities - he believed her greatest role to be in the play Brenda liked the least.

Personally, she found little interest in _Andromache_ and instead determined none of the characters convivial. Professionally, however, she needed to pretend that she and mythical Andromache were one in the same.

Brenda never shied away from professionalism. She simply drew upon a specific individual from her past to channel Euripides' overly distraught, titular character who seemed to experience every imaginable torture during the Trojan War. Whilst numerous paintings often depicted Andromache with darker hair - a piece by French artist Pierre Paul Prud'hon crafted during the era of Neoclassicism and hanging in the foyer of RADA specifically came to mind - Brenda wondered if blonde would have been more appropriate.

"Brilliant," Theo said, his enthusiastic grin spreading to her fellow cast members conversing amongst themselves on a short break, "One more run through and then you may all go home. Eight o'clock tomorrow; don't forget! We've a ten-hour rehearsal. Sleep well. Nearly there, lads. America awaits!"

She left the theatre in a sluggish state, imagining her warm bed and a nice nap. Rainy days often saw her enjoying an evening with the Wachinskis or helping out Howie at the pub, but overwhelming fatigue borne from the abrupt return to a busy routine took her home after catching a sale in relation to her trip-specific wardrobe.

California may have been well-acquainted with the fashionable Brenda Walsh of the nineteen nineties, but it was about to encounter Brenda Walsh of the twenty-first century and that Brenda should look nothing less than incredible - not for anyone in particular, but to show both herself and the state that she didn't need it.

When Brenda's family initially relocated to the wealthier area of southern California, she planned to make a name for herself among its elite residents. Her first day at West Beverly High, Brenda immediately befriended the most popular girl in the halls. They referred to each other as best friends and seemed to be close, for a while.

By the time they both enrolled at California University three years later and with the same ex-boyfriend under their carefully selected belts, neither trusted the other.

Their relationship became the anthropomorphic equivalent of shoulder pads in the eighties - fashionably necessary in a boardroom and then a decade later, snipped out of old blazers that might still be salvageable.

Over time, Kelly Taylor transitioned from her best friend, to her friend, to her competition over a boy who could never seem to choose between either, to the woman who obviously no longer wished to be a friend, to her future sister-in-law and finally, to a woman she used to know.

Kelly seemed to want and get it all - Brenda's brother, Brenda's boyfriend, her friends, her parents. Even beloved cousin Bobby Walsh once considered the idea of dating Kelly Taylor, invoking a sense of protection in Brenda after his messy breakup with her old Minnesotan friend.

Her own life in the Golden State became rife with heartache, betrayal, entropy, false accusations and even an arrest.

She grew tired of the drama, desperate for a fresh start far away from judgmental eyes.

The United States broke her heart on numerous occasions, sent her brother into a country he may have never left for articles that would have undoubtedly been passed over in favor of clickbait and drove away her parents.

An Englishman secured her passage to RADA, a British theatre gifted her first break, the British public shot her to fame. Through Theo Fletcher and his troupe, the Brits now made it possible for her to return.

Whilst Brenda was fully aware that she ended her own autumn break, returned to multiple rehearsals after two weeks of calm and elected to join Theo's troupe herself instead of turning down the request, she still ensured that Shane felt at least a smidgen of her wrath.

He brushed it off, telling her that no one else would have sufficed as Lavinia's replacement and she should thank him for his help in taking her talent to an international level.

Katie responded to his comment with the motion of a light smack upside the head, causing Shane to duck and issue an apology for his egoism.

Rather than point out that she lacked a desire for fame on the other side of the pond, perfectly content as a star in Europe alone, Brenda allowed him a small level of gratitude. Unwittingly, Shane Wachinski's determination and slick talking contributed significantly to the vital mission of reuniting with her brother.

She found herself in a dilemma - delighted to see Brandon, excited to see Steve and his daughter, terrified that the trip would be a horrendous mistake after a long, purposeful absence.

Balancing a cuppa in one hand and her script in the other the previous evening, Brenda had nearly missed a phone call from her mother. She listened with a smile as Cindy rambled on in her own enthusiasm, informing her daughter of their intended flight to California.

She did not, however, inform Cindy of her own plans. Rather than understand the temporary return, her mother may have assumed Brenda to be moving back and thus tell the misinformation to anyone who would listen.

She aimlessly wandered by Waterstones on King's Road, noticed a new book in the display window, nipped in and politely requested for the much taller bookshop employee to grab it off of the high shelf. Brenda herself did not read poetry and carried little interest in the style. Regardless, she never failed to purchase the works of one poet in particular - the only poet in her collection.

Brenda dropped into cheesy tourist souvenir shops, scouring skyline luggage, Union Jack sweatshirts, quote books by the royals and Big Ben magnets. She acquired small trinkets for the various individuals she planned to encounter overseas - Brandon, Steve and his daughter - and those whom she may stumble across unexpectedly.

She could not, of course, be caught unawares without souvenirs. Americans of the United States were notoriously known among each other to delight in receiving knick-knacks and postcards from foreign countries, whether or not they previously visited.

Her grandmother amassed an entire collection of magnets from places she never saw, simply through gifts from the ocean cruises of her East Coast friends.

Brenda had shared her observation with the Wachinskis some years ago, who then took it to New York and discovered wearing a shirt boasting of a love for the city on the subway made one appear as transparent as strolling through the streets of Paris in a beret.

She recalled when, aged eight, she received a birthday present from her father following a corporate retreat in Philadelphia. Brenda had stared in awe at the script for Broadway's _Bye Bye Birdie_ , read every line, repeatedly practiced the dialogue aloud until Jim threatened to take the copy from her possession and watched Ann-Margret swoon over a man undeserving of adulation.

Brenda originally thought Kim McAfee a fool, growing to understand her situation a little more when she dated her own egotistical moron in the form of the affluent Stuart Carson whose childness far surpassed high school triangles.

Conrad Birdie would have undoubtedly shouted at Kim in the Palm Springs desert too, Brenda decided in her thousandth rewatch after finally severing all ties with the man she nearly married in a Vegas chapel.

It was in the chapel that she determined herself to be in love with love, declaring it both to Stuart and to the friends who insisted on coming along. She later concluded her statement to have been said more as a way to justify a broken engagement with her former fiancé and still retain their relationship than one based in fact. Of all the lovesick fictional characters perceived to be in love with love, including Romeo Montague, Brenda did not fit the description.

She wondered how such awful men frequently put on the air of armored knights, tricking naive young women each and every time. Left unpolished, that shining armor often transformed into rusted aluminum.

People could change, she knew, but not Conrad Birdie and she felt certain, not Stuart Carson.

Brenda did not believe herself to be truly in love with the concept of love, but relished the idea of finding someone who would form the other half of a strong unit, as with Jim and Cindy Walsh. More than a dynamic similar to her parents, Brenda desired a relationship akin to the sixty year one of her maternal Gran and Grandpa Beevis, begun in the first planting of a Minneapolis Victory Garden during the second World War.

She did not, however, look for it. She held one steady boyfriend in London, the relationship lasting a total of three years. There were several different dates of varying shades - men who were nice, men who were not, men who drank, men who smoked, those who Bible thumped, those who asked her how to get the attention of Levi Akers.

Her conversation with Cindy revealed Stuart's own future. Once the prominent CEO of the nation's leading tech company, Stuart Carson now sat in an undoubtedly cushy state prison for tax evasion exposed by intrusive media.

She nearly became Mrs. Tax Evasion, her mother noted, as if Brenda needed the reminder of what she considered her worst mistake.

It just felt nice to be loved at the time, when it seemed like so many people she cared about no longer cared about her - or at least not in the same way.

Shaking out of her disturbing reverie, Brenda attempted to call her twin at Vandenberg. Listening to Staff Sergeant Brady speak of Brandon's preoccupation in a physical therapy appointment effectively heightened her concerns about her brother's constitution.

"Physical therapy?" she asked, alarmed, "Oh my god, is he okay? Like, really okay, not just alive and back in the States kind of okay?"

"Mr. Walsh will be fine," replied Lonnie Brady with firm assurance. "His PT says he is coming along well, which is amazing given the relatively short time since he was brought here. Your brother is one hell of a lucky guy, Ms. Walsh. You know how many reporters never come back from this?"

"He is, isn't he?" Brenda said, recognizing that they both shared an unusual amount of luck which overshadowed their miserable life events. Luck brought her a full scholarship to RADA simply because of her connection with English thespian Roy Randolph, which would have been difficult to afford otherwise. Luck turned a lump on her breast found in high school into fibroadenoma easily removed in surgery, luck that lacked in the story of her beloved late aunt. Luck beckoned her first lead role and luck planned to take her straight back to California.

Brandon's luck evidently decided to take a break while under the close watch of rebel forces, but it encountered him again to bring him home. Brenda understood exactly how many reporters never returned from kidnapping after extensive research during his. Luck kept Brandon their parents' most trusted child after totaling his car in a drunken race for more alcohol and again during his gambling struggles.

She used to think that her parents would never trust her in the way that they clung to their trust in the constantly screwing up Brandon and impulsively moved to London to gain some semblance of approval. Jim distrusted her relationship, career goals, ability to drive - though they all mistrusted that - and desire to live a life on her own terms.

Her years in London taught Brenda that the only approval she needed was her own. When she first began on the theatre scene, she found RADA's curriculum brutal, discovered critics often unkind and casting directors tough. Opening night of the summer semester saw her break down backstage and wonder if she'd made a colossal blunder.

But returning to California would be giving up, proving naysayers correct, and Brenda adamantly refused to allow anyone the satisfaction of seeing her fail as others witnessed several times during her adolescence.

Determination coupled with hard work of early morning and late night rehearsals ultimately won out.

"Did you speak with Detective Sutherfield?" she asked, shaking out of her thoughts and returning to the conversation with the Staff Sergeant.

"Yes, I did and he asked if there was a chance for some non-biological family of Mr. Walsh to visit."

"So is there?" she prompted.

"They may, provided Mr. Walsh's kin accompany them," said Lonnie Brady in a firm tone.

"Is there a specific reason? I'll be there at week's end, but that seems a really long, unnecessary time for Brandon to be alone."

Brenda pictured Staff Sergeant Brady leaning back in a leather chair placed directly below a ceiling fan, one hand under his chin and the other laying flat on his knee in an homage to the Thinker, questioning her audacity to challenge authority.

When he answered, it was in a much gentler tone than she anticipated.

"I don't make the rules, Ms. Walsh."

"Well, the rules are stupid," she replied crossly.

"I'll pass that along."

Kelly would be upset, but Brenda could not simply jump into the phone, grab Lonnie Brady by the shoulders and demand that Brandon's friends be allowed into the secure facility.

She did consider the possibility of tracking down FBI bylaws to determine if Lonnie Brady's verdict was rubbish, but decided she had neither the time nor the inclination for the search. Jay Sutherfield indicated departmental rules were specific to a case and Brenda lacked the necessary access for Brandon's file.

She left a voicemail for Kelly, repeating Detective Brady's statement. In her rush of information, Brenda carefully avoided any mention of her impending trip.

Kelly would only tell Donna, she thought, and Donna needed to hear it directly from her.

Standing by her bedroom window, one hand holding the curtain halfway back, Brenda surveyed her neighborhood. The bloke around the corner looked up and gave a cheery wave, which she happily returned. An older woman gestured at the captain of the local fire brigade, incoherent statements becoming more animated with a puncture of her waving hands. Across the street, two children ran in front of a parent balancing supper as they carefully walked out of a chipper. Based on the size of the paper bag and with her prior knowledge of the food prepared inside, Brenda estimated at least four kebabs.

A noisy ding interrupted her peaceful moment of people watching.

Her eyes darted around, looking for the source of the disturbance.

_needtobenosy: Bren! Hey, Brenda! Are you around?_

Brenda examined the pop-up on her PC screen, cautious of who would bother to message her. Intimate acquaintances often teased her of her neglect in responding to typed correspondence, for she preferred the classic art of penmanship on paper.

Letters were more theatrical, permitted an easier outlet to bear one's soul and held an old romanticism often ignored in twenty-first century technology.

Bent on moving her computer mouse's cursor to close out of Yahoo Messenger, she nearly missed the user's handle.

Upon recognition, Brenda relaxed in her desk chair and began to type a response.

_starsinhereyes: Caught me home from rehearsal. Just having a cuppa. What's up?_

_needtobenosy: Skype me. Now._

_starsinhereyes: Demanding much?_

"Brenda!" said California's Andrea Zuckerman with a wide smile, her voice ringing in with little static. Brenda rarely accepted video calls, an utter nightmare for her home's shaky Internet connection, but the message platform's newer video calling feature appeared steady at the moment. "Hi! Did you get the VHS I sent? Post office said it should've arrived on Monday, but domestic mail is bad enough and I've never shipped anything internationally before. How good is the Royal Mail over there? Surely it shouldn't be that hard for a video to make it through customs? I would assume, anyway."

"You know they have these things called DVD's now, right? They're on small discs you put into something called a DVD player and you never need to be kind enough to rewind," Brenda teased, throwing a hand backward to show Andrea her own extensive collection.

"Videos are better. Did you get it?"

"Yes, I did," she said in a nod, "thank you, Andrea. Hannah looks fantastic and so do you."

"She insisted. But, oh my gosh, how long has it been? Hanukkah? No, wait, you saw Hannah's dress from abuelita Vasquez at Easter, right? Was it Steve's birthday? "

"End of May, Andrea," she replied with a slight smile, "We talked right before the summer season began."

"Oh, yes, that's right," Andrea said, her sheepish expression indicating an annoyance that she could not recall the exact date for someone who typically boasted a photographic memory. "Sorry, my mind's been going a mile a minute since Steve told me about Brandon and I don't even remember what I ate for lunch yesterday," she murmured.

"Brenda!" she added, her expression brightening. "Brandon's alive!"

"I know, Andrea," Brenda said with a radiant smile of her own.

"I know you know; you told Steve, but Brenda, he's back! Brandon! Is back! Well, technically he's at Vandenberg, but he's back and that's what matters," Andrea said, flicking her hands around in jovial determination.

"Yes, thank God," Brenda replied. "I have to confess, Andrea, Steve and I both nearly gave up. Had you?"

"Of course not," she insisted.

Andrea hesitated, looked upward towards something unseen and then leaned forward.

"Well, yeah, at one point, I did. I mean, he'd been gone for so long. Brandon's tough, but he's not that tough, you know?"

The recipient of many conversations involving an emotional Brandon Walsh, his twin nodded at Andrea's statement.

"But then," the lighter brunette continued, "I remembered something Grandma always said."

"What's that?" Brenda asked.

"Miracles only happen to those who keep hoping in them," Andrea quoted.

"Miracles only happen to those who keep hoping in them," Brenda repeated, "I like that."

"Me too," Andrea replied, maintaining a steady grin.

"Now," she said, placing balled-up hands under her chin, "What is this I hear about you flying out to California without coming to see us?"

"Steve Sanders has a big mouth," Brenda said, groaning into her hands.

"Yes, he does," Andrea agreed dismissively. "Is it true?"

"Um," Brenda said through her fingers, finding sudden interest in surveying a speck of dust on the ceiling.

"Brenda," Andrea said.

"Yeah," she replied with a sigh, "It's true."

"Would that be because of someone in particular? Or maybe two someones?" pried the Pulitzer-nominated journalist.

Between Andrea Zuckerman's interrogations and Brandon Walsh's piercing blue eyes which could detect every concealed thought, Brenda learnt the hard way that fibbing to either would be pointless.

"Andrea, I don't want to get into it," she said, hoping to avoid the subject completely.

"Now, Bren, look, you know I try to not get involved in whatever this thing is or isn't between you and Dylan, but the fact that you're coming to California and won't even come see us -"

"Andrea," Brenda said, "I'm sorry, but it's pretty fruitless trying to change my mind."

"Yeah because you're obstinate," Andrea replied, emitting a deep sigh.

"Hey! Look who's talking," Brenda said.

"Well, at least I admit it," she laughed. "You and your brother are exactly alike, you know? Never want to admit when you're being intransigent."

"Andrea? In English, please," Brenda said.

"It's basically the same as stubborn," Andrea explained.

"Did you just call me three different words for stubborn?"

"Maybe," Andrea replied, a third smile playing upon her lips.

"And say I'm the same as Brandon?"

"Yes."

"God, Andrea. You're lucky I love you," Brenda replied, hair waving back and forth over her shoulders in a headshake.

"Yes, I am," Andrea said. "So look, you won't come see me, but I'm going to see you, okay?"

"You're coming up to Santa Maria?" she asked.

"Maybe, but I mean I'll be joining Steve when he meets you at Vandenberg. He said you're planning to go on Saturday afternoon?"

"Yes," Brenda nodded, "We get in Friday night."

"Great, we'll see you this weekend!" Andrea said, grinning.

"Can't wait," Brenda replied genuinely, "though I don't really want it getting around that I'm back, especially since it's for such a short time anyway, so please don't share it with many people, okay?"

"I can't tell Donna?" Andrea asked.

"No, that's fine. I've meant to call her and tell her myself and I will, I swear. I've just been so busy with everything about Brandon and rehearsal, tying things up here before I fly out, taking care of the bills so they aren't piled up when I return or go to collections and talking to the detectives."

On the other side of the screen, Andrea maintained a pensive expression as she always did when Brenda began to ramble.

"Yeah, about that. I've been researching the bylaws and there doesn't seem to be any reason for this fatuous order that says Brandon can only be seen by blood kin. There's an exception for adoptions, of course, and if we were to simply say that he's an adopted brother, that might suffice."

"I think you're exaggerating a wee bit on the blood kin part. I don't know, Andrea. Detective Brady made it pretty clear Brandon could only be seen by Walshes or Beevises and he gets his orders from the higher-ups. I mean, you can call him, if you want, but I'm not sure it will do much good."

"If Brandon's still at Vandenberg when you've returned to London, we won't be able to see him and I just don't think that's right. He's been gone so long and he's a major part of all of our lives. You are, too, actually; I don't know what it is about you Walshes. It's like everything changes without you. First you left and it was weird, but we managed, then your parents and then Brandon. It just isn't the same anymore. Message me the number, please."

Brenda complied.

"So you swear you're going to tell Donna?"

She held up a finger, grabbed a pencil and penned a tangible reminder to contact the blonde before she heard of the trip from Andrea or Steve.

Brenda showed her friend the memo pad sheet as proof of her promise, receiving an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

"David will hear through Donna," Andrea continued, "and Steve obviously knows. But you don't want it getting around through the grapevine."

Brenda's shoulders raised in a shrug.

"Are you trying to hide from Nat or something?"

"I mean, I guess you can tell Nat."

"Oh," Andrea said, lightly colored eyes surveying her friend's virtual image in understanding, "I see. You mean -"

"Mom! Uncle Dylan is here! Should I tell him you're on that Skype thing talking to Bren about Uncle Brandon?" extroverted Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez yelled loudly enough to be heard in her mother's office and over their conversation.

Bewildered, Andrea turned from her screen to respond.

"No, honey, I don't think you should tell him that!" she called.

"Did you say to tell him?" Brenda heard the girl ask.

"No, Hannah! I said it's better if you don't."

"Oh! My bad! Sorry, Mom!"

The pounding of running feet over hardwood floors installed into a house on the other side of the world sounded through Brenda's computer speakers.

"Andrea, I have to go," she said, thinking quickly, "I'm due to meet the lads for drinks down at the pub."

"But, Brenda, you don't drink on Wednesdays."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll start today."

"Now Bren, hang on, we're not finished talking. Don't you dare go just because -"

"Call you later, Andrea!" she said, ending the session just as a flicker of Dylan's flushed face burst through the Los Angeles home's open office door and materialized in the corner of the screen.

Her pulse rapidly racing as if she were a participant breaking through the finish line in the London Marathon, Brenda examined the details of the Walsh family photo set into her desktop wallpaper and pondered the symptoms of a premature heart attack.

Ignoring an incoming request for another Skype session with Andrea Zuckerman in the event that her friend's computer had fallen into the hands of one Dylan McKay, she turned off the monitor.

Taking a break from all social interaction, Brenda knelt by the bed and felt blindly around for her suitcase. Already carrying a long list of concerns about the upcoming trip, she resolved to not add packing procrastination to those numerous stressors.

Besides, Brenda thought, she still had two days to call Donna.


	4. Chapter 4

" **And at that moment, when she says come back, give me something, I realized - and this is really for Lilly, for, for all the - the Brenda versus Kelly people - I realized that maybe Dylan should have been with Brenda. Maybe that would've been, uh, the thing to do." - Writer/Executive Producer Chuck Rosin, Beverly Hills 90210 podcast in June 2020** , _eliciting responses of: "I told you. Duh!" from Larry Mollin and a knowing smile/laugh with "Wow!" from BD's dad, James Eckhouse._

xx

With a mixed brew of exhilaration and agitation, the yet undiscovered theatre troupe bussed into the Heathrow carpark nearing the crack of dawn.

Reassuringly holding the hand of a particularly nervous first time flier, Brenda turned to catch a glimpse of the sunrise before bidding a temporary farewell to the kingdom in the sea.

Only two months and she would be home, she reminded herself, though the thought did little to calm her own nerves.

Instead, she spent the majority of their transatlantic flight either sleeping or visualizing the borders of California closing and preventing an escape home.

The plane dipped low into marshmallow clouds, free of turbulence until encountering the majestic, imposing Rocky Mountains encumbering Colorado's mile high city.

Unhindered, they departed Denver International and its hot, dry air at precisely the time listed on their tickets, arriving mere hours later into the significantly cooler San Diego.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," said Theo Fletcher after the group disembarked and crossed over to the regional terminal for Santa Barbara, "how do people live in that?"

"Live in what?" Brenda asked, one hand clutching her shoulder bag's strap whilst the other held the handle of her rolling carry-on.

"That heat in Denver! It's roasting. Like being in a fecking desert!"

"Oh, that's nothing," she replied with a laugh, "it's dry heat. You should try Minnesota in the summer. Eighty - I mean, twenty degrees and humid."

"Is there an ocean in Minnesota?"

"Well, there's lakes."

"Twenty degrees with a lake? I think I'll leave that weather to Majorca, thank you."

The group touched down in Santa Barbara, connecting with a rental car agency to secure their planned vehicular transport. Waiting for Theo and stage manager Isla to return with the promised automobile, Brenda observed a handful of her colleagues eyeing the airport's finer details.

"What kind of architecture is that?" whispered one.

"Oh, I read about this somewhere. I think it's called missing rebel style."

"No, you twat," said a third, "it's mission revival style."

"Did you just look that up?"

"Might've done."

They arrived into their Santa Maria accommodations later that evening, knackered from the long flight and bearing an attack of ferocious jet lag. Only a few rounds of drinks, quite a bit of laughter and the waning sun sent them straight into bed.

Waking up long before the others after another restless sleep, Brenda began to prepare breakfast.

"Hello, Brenda," said Isla, who stood carefully braiding her hair.

"Morning, Is," she replied with the flip of a skillet.

"Need some help?"

"That'd be great."

"What's the plan for today, Bren?" asked Isla. "What do you call this, again?"

"Kumquat," said Brenda, "I'm, uh, meeting some friends."

"Americans have strange names for fruit."

"I don't think these are originally American," Brenda replied with a slight laugh.

"Ah, ye ken pals over here?"

"Popping 'round to see my brother."

"Brilliant," said Isla as she grabbed a kettle brought from home, lest their various California accommodations lack in kettles.

Pushing through the day until the clock's second hand arrived on the time Andrea planned to pick her up, Brenda's apprehension began to increase. Neither her brother nor her friends would invoke a sense of nervousness, which led to her bemusement that she felt the emotion at all.

She blamed California. Within its towering palm trees and fusion dishes lay a galaxy of hurt she yearned to forget.

"Brenda! You've a visitor."

"Andrea!" she cried, immediately reaching out to her friend. "You're early!"

"What can I say, I was excited," Andrea replied, squeezing the vanishing act of West Beverly, "but not too early, I hope. You won't be ready."

"Just give me a second," Brenda said, though it turned into twenty.

They chatted along the way to Vandenberg, discussing their individual prestigious careers and answers about Brenda's life in London.

She had just started detailing the exact content of Piccadilly Circus and its upcoming winter rush when the oceanside of Vandenberg began to appear.

The women stepped out, linked arms and stood waiting.

"Wow," Brenda breathed, "they've an incredible view."

"Certainly better than I expected," replied Andrea, her focus with the shimmering Pacific Ocean that lay on one side of Vandenberg.

"Brenda!" shouted a blur, affecting her balance as it threw itself forward. Regaining her footing, she tightened her arms around the bearlike individual.

"Where's Maddie?" she asked, looking around.

"No hello for me?" he asked.

"Hello, Steve," she beamed, "where's Maddie?"

"With Hannah," Steve replied.

"Erin's watching them," Andrea added.

"Silver," he corrected.

She remained in his leather arms, appreciating the familiarity that came with being around Steve Sanders.

A second figure swung itself out of Steve's car and halted upon sight of the woman before him.

"Andrea! You promised!" Brenda said, turning a hurt expression on her friend.

"I didn't say anything," Andrea replied.

"Steve!"

"What? Wasn't me," he swore, holding up large hands to defend himself from an impending and rather undeserved wrath.

"Yeah, I just said we were going to see Brandon," replied Andrea, "so of course he wanted to come and I may have forgotten to mention that we would be meeting you."

"I also forgot," Steve said.

Brenda examined the duo, who wore matching expressions of feigned innocence.

"You're too much," she sighed.

"Well damn, Brenda Walsh, is that you?" asked Dylan McKay, reclining against the vehicle. "I'd started to think you were a mirage."

"Very funny, Dylan," she replied with a glare towards both Steve and Andrea.

"Oh, so you do know me. Didn't think an illusion could remember."

"That makes no sense, Dylan."

"You don't make sense, Bren."

She swallowed, thinking back to the day he professed to permanently exit her world with a similar statement. Clearly, chance missed the memo.

Brenda inwardly berated herself for visiting California or Vandenberg or anywhere Dylan McKay decided to show his face - his frustratingly beautiful face.

She'd been a fool to believe she could prevent seeing him if she only steered clear of Beverly Hills.

"Andrea, help me bring in these supplies for Brandon," said Steve and the two promptly left.

She began to follow.

"Kinda thought your parents would be here," Dylan broke the silence with an awkward rub of his neck, less confident now that they were alone.

Her options were limited. She could either be discourteous and ignore any conversation her ex-boyfriend tried to initiate or hold some sense of congeniality and ease the situation for everyone, especially her brother.

"Well, they are planning to come," Brenda replied, choosing for Brandon's sake a substantial amount more of audible benevolence than she felt.

"How," he inhaled sharply, kicking his boots against the blacktop, "how are you?"

"Good," she replied.

"That's good," said Dylan.

"And you?"

"Good."

"Then we're both good."

"Yeah. It's good."

She produced a tight smile at their repetitive conversation.

"You - you were so set on keeping me from knowing you were in town that you made two of our friends promise to not say anything?"

"This isn't exactly in town."

"You know what I mean."

He failed to conceal his distress, both at Brenda and at their said friends.

"Um," she confessed, "well, actually, four."

"Four?" he asked.

"Yeah, Donna and David also know. And - I may have told Nat."

"You made all of my friends promise?" he inquired, voice quaking as if their five mutuals committed an unforgivable sin.

"It's not like it matters, Dylan," she said.

"It matters, Bren," he replied in a soft murmur, gaze locked on her petite figure.

"Look, we should get inside -"

"Why have you spent all these years avoiding me?" He lightly touched her arm to prevent the departure, brown eyes desperately searching hazel.

"Because you've avoided me," she answered plainly.

"Because you've avoided me!" he stated. "Just the other day, you got off Skype with Andrea simply because I walked into the room."

"Don't flatter yourself. I had to go."

"Sure, Bren. You gonna tell me missing Donna's wedding didn't have anything to do with me?"

"I was in the middle of a show, Dylan!"

"Convenient," he scoffed.

"Kinda like when the gang gets together on Thanksgiving, calls me and you're the only one who conveniently finds something else to do?"

"Oh, you mean like when you invited everyone else to see your show in Philly, complete with prepaid tickets that had to be returned when it was cancelled at the last minute and I didn't get one?"

"I did send you one!" she replied indignantly.

"Yeah, okay, I guess it just happened to get lost in the mail," he mocked.

"Funny, it's like publishing your first book and hearing it through Steve."

"And clearly skipping out on the tenth year reunion was just to avoid the food," he murmured, shoulders hunched in defeat. "I don't know why you hate me."

"I don't hate you."

They expelled deep sighs, years of frustration and pent-up betrayal wading through the blacktop.

"Look, Bren. I, uh, tried to call you; you know, after - after Brandon disappeared," he said quickly.

"Yeah, I got the message," Brenda replied, averting his eyes.

"You did?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Well, you never called me back," Dylan accused.

Observing the pained gaze painted onto the face of a man she once loved more than her own life, Brenda fought for the steel of the Round Table.

"Why, so we could fake pleasantries and cry over my lost brother together before you went and knocked up his fiancée?" she glowered.

"That's not what happened," Dylan said, his already dark brown eyes managing to darken ten times over at her question.

"Isn't it?"

"No," he emphasized, "Bren, listen, okay? You got it all wrong. Everyone's got it all wrong."

"It doesn't matter," she cut in, her focus laying more with the yarn roll of contemplations kayaking through her mind than with his denial.

"It doesn't?" asked a stunned Dylan.

"Yeah, it doesn't. I mean, you made it pretty clear that I'd be out of your life for good so it's not like you owe me any explanations for what you chose to do with it."

"Because you pushed me out of yours!" Dylan said.

"No, I didn't!"

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry, just out of your flat and our bed," he replied, a sarcastic tone accompanying pointed fingers.

"You seemed to recover just fine in Kelly's after you came back and again after Brandon didn't. Even got a kid to show for it."

"Dammit, Brenda, will you quit being stubborn and let me speak? Look, Kelly and I, we - Sammy isn't -"

Dylan's words were drowned out by Steve hurrying into the parking lot to yell for them to get their asses inside if they wanted to see Brandon anytime soon.

He sighed, running both hands over a countenance left unaffected by time.

"Bren, can Steve and I take you somewhere after this? I saw a diner off the freeway."

"I'm not sure that's such a great idea, Dylan."

"Please, Brenda? Look, we just really need to talk."

"Really? Because I think we've talked enough."

"You call that talking? Bren, c'mon. There's things you don't know."

"There are things I don't need to know," she emphasized.

"No, I think you do," he replied, staring directly into her eyes in a way that still invited tremors across her waistline.

"You two looking to see Brandon or what?" Steve asked impatiently, tapping his foot. "We can't even get past the lobby without Bren. He doesn't have all day, you know. The hot secretary said his PT will be here soon."

"Steve!" Brenda scolded.

"What, Bren? She is hot," he replied, broad shoulders folding into a flippant shrug.

She glanced quickly at Dylan, whose eyes met hers, and then looked away.

Producing identification to prove she was indeed Brandon's relation of the same surname - good thing she never married, Brenda thought - she sprinted down the hallway to his room.

"Oh my god, Brandon!" she said, opening the door with a clang.

"There's my stunning sister," grinned Brandon Walsh.

She barreled into him, Brandon catching her with a chuckle.

"Careful," he said.

"Sorry," she replied, though she did not release him.

"Hey, hey, Bren, it's okay. I'm here," he said softly, feeling Brenda's tears hit his shoulder.

"But you haven't been, have you?" she asked, "and I thought you never would be again."

"It isn't exactly the Walsh way to bail, is it?" he answered, rubbing her back.

"Well," she replied in contemplation, "not the Brandon Walsh way."

He chuckled again and ushered towards the cot evidently used as his bed.

"Are you and Graham still together?" he asked as they sat, easing her mind away from the difficult subject of his long absence.

"No. When you disappeared, I kinda...shut down. He accused me of pushing him away."

"Yeah," Brandon replied, tilting his head, "you do that."

"Brandon, I thought my twin was never coming back and Graham tried to make me feel better by talking about future kids I don't even know if I can have."

"Brenda. You didn't make that appointment?"

"The day they told me about you? Hell no, I didn't."

"And every day since?" he asked, surveying his sister.

"What's the point, Brandon? It's not like I meet many guys who can be classified as superb father material. My schedule's too crazy to raise a kid myself. I doubt I'd even be a good mom."

"Bren, you'd be a great mom."

They fell into an easy silence, until Brandon cleared his throat.

"Bren, I, uh, I had a lot of time alone in there to think about my life, about our lives, what I would say the next time I saw you - if there was a next time, and I just wanna say that I'm sorry."

"Brandon," she asked, perplexed, "why are you sorry?"

"Look, before we moved to Beverly Hills, it was always us. Brandon and Brenda Walsh, the Minnesota Twins. We were best friends growing up, weren't we?"

She nodded, hesitant to interrupt his soliloquy.

"Well, Bren, I mean, let's be honest. The whole thing between you and Dylan, Kelly; I wasn't exactly best friend material during it."

"Oh God, Brandon, we were teenagers. That triangle - or, square, I guess - between us and them happened a long time ago."

"Just hear me out, okay? You were hurting and I kinda, well, I brushed it off as normal high school drama when there wasn't anything normal about it. I basically chose one sibling over the other so I wouldn't have to choose, which really doesn't make sense when you think about it, and yeah, Dylan was my brother then and he's my brother now, but you're my sister. And to top it all off," he gave a sardonic chuckle that transformed into a wince, "I went and fell in love with the woman who hurt you."

"You really don't need to apologize for loving Kelly," she said, "We could all see it from the beginning. You were just too stubborn to admit that you liked her until after she got with Dylan."

"Yeah, I guess," he said. "Maybe it was just because she was your friend. I mean, I knew what it was like to have your sister date your best friend and if I'd been the brother dating the best friend?"

"You, dating Kel in high school? Nope, can't picture it."

"I can. Would've saved all three of you a lot of pain," Brandon replied, his smile rueful.

"Well, it didn't happen and we're much older now so if that's all you thought about while we sat wondering if you were alive, I mean, Brandon, you might want to get a more interesting life."

He laughed, wrapping a bruised arm around Brenda's shoulders to draw her against his side in the comforting way that only her brother could.

"And for what it's worth," she replied, voice muffled by his shirt, "I forgive you."

The twins sat, simply enjoying each other's company or perhaps reminiscing of days before love triangles and broken trust.

A light tapping on the door jarred their tranquility.

"Hey, B," Dylan said, casually leaning against the door. At first glance, his countenance appeared nonchalant. Both twins, however, could easily detect the tears clinging to his long lashes.

"Hey D," Brandon replied.

West Beverly High's continued reigning kings exchanged bright smiles, clapped each other on the back and moved closely together in a tight embrace. They had managed to retain a strong friendship since hitting the Green Room, regardless of their tumultuous past involving a certain blonde.

"Thank you for coming back to us," Dylan shakily whispered, clutching onto Brandon.

Neither time, vices, distance nor even Kelly Taylor aided in permanently demolishing a brotherhood.

"I should go," Brenda said, slightly uncomfortable at her perceived intrusion in the duo's private moment.

"No, Bren, stay," Brandon urged.

"Yeah, Bren, stay," Dylan echoed, one arm hanging around Brandon's shoulders whilst granting her a penetrating gaze.

"I don't know," she hesitated, "I think I'll just be in the way."

"Who? You? Brenda Walsh? In the way? Nah, not a chance. Right, D?"

"Right, B."

"Why are you two making me feel like a teenager again?" she whined, resisting the urge to stamp her foot in childish behavior which would certainly waft forward an air of adolescence.

"Probably because we know you better than anyone," Brandon replied.

"Anyone, huh? I don't know, Brandon, I think there's quite a few people in London who would disagree with you on that one."

"Trust me, Brenda," he said, "if you haven't told these London people about the time you decided to dye your hair blonde, then they don't know you better than we do."

"You're just never gonna let that one die out, are you?" she scowled.

"Interesting choice of words there, Bren. Dye."

A loud sound began to rumble, which the bickering twins soon discovered took the form of Dylan laughing.

"What's so funny?" Brenda asked, intertwining bare arms over her chest.

"You two. The Walsh twins, doing what you Walsh twins do. God, seeing you both in the same room again, it's surreal," Dylan replied, shaking his head to stifle the laughter.

"That's right. How long has it been?" Brandon asked, exchanging a look with his sister.

"Well, you had that layover in London," she reminded him.

"I know that," he replied. "I mean, how long has it been since we've both been around Dylan?"

Brenda pondered, mentally replaying their interactions before Brandon's disappearance - a few trips to London, one wild weekend with Val in Berlin and a short Christmas in Melbourne, none of which involved Dylan McKay.

"Actually, I don't know," she confessed.

"Too damn long," murmured the man in question.

"How long, Dylan?" asked Brandon, comprehending his friend's mumbled statement.

"Put it this way, man," Dylan replied, "you, well, there was one time in DC" he pointed, "and she," he looked at Brenda, "left the country back when Clinton was president, so the two of you together?"

"Damn, that long?" Brandon said, scrunched features indicating inner tabulation.

"Yeah, Brando. That long."

"And when you last saw Brenda?" he asked.

"Brandon, you know I haven't seen Dylan since I moved," she replied, so accustomed to the decade-long lie that it robotically slipped out.

"Oh, give it up, Bren. Brandon knows. He's the only one who does," said her exasperated ex.

"He knows?" she asked, bewildered.

"Yep," Brandon nodded, "I know."

"You know about London?"

"Oh yeah," Dylan said, "he knows about London."

"All about London?" she asked, a flush creeping into her cheekbones.

"All about London," both men emphasized.

"Well then," Brenda replied in a huff, "I suppose we should be grateful that you apparently haven't told anyone."

"Speak for yourself," Dylan said, maintaining a steady gaze.

She ignored him.

"I can't believe he told you," she pointed an accusatory finger at Dylan, changing direction towards Brandon, "and you never said anything to Andrea or Steve. What about Kelly?"

They answered with matching head shakes.

"Brandon. You didn't even tell Kelly?" she inquired, stunned.

"Wasn't my place," Brandon replied in a shrug. "Dylan told me in confidence."

"You never mentioned anything," she said, confused.

"Like I said, Bren. Dylan told me in confidence. If you wanted to, you would've. I didn't want to push anything."

"Well," she said, still fazed by their confession, "then I guess it's only right to say that I told Val."

Dylan's startled expression turned to her.

"You told Val?" he asked.

"Of course I told Val," she replied.

"But I thought there was nothing to tell," he said quietly, repeating Brenda's own words.

"Remind me to congratulate Val on a secret well kept," Brandon said, attempting to soften the tension pervading his space, "might be her first one yet about someone else."

Dylan's gaze locked on hers a bit too long for comfortability, Brenda decided as she hurriedly severed their connection to glance at her brother.

"I don't know, Brandon. You're doing an awful lot of talking for someone supposedly at death's door," she teased.

"That was last week," he said.

"When are they gonna let you out of here, Jones?" asked Dylan.

"Soon. They're checking with the PT to see if I'm up to code, but Brady says I oughta be good by sometime next week."

Brenda squeezed him tightly, relieved that there appeared to be little concern with permanent effects from his traumatic experience.

"Hey, Bren, watch it," he said, wincing.

"Sorry," she said, releasing her hold.

"You flying back to DC?" Dylan asked, consternation cracking through feigned indifference.

"Nah, man, think I'll head down to LA."

"Well, that makes one of you," he replied, granting Brenda an accusatory expression.

"What does that mean?" Brandon asked.

"Nothing," she said, silently wishing that her ex would cease his constant staring.

"It means that Bren is determined to avoid SoCal, though we all know why and he's standing right here so it's a moot point."

"Steve!" she said, throwing up her arms. "God, all you boys are against me."

"I mean, they're not wrong."

"Andrea!" she groaned, "Not you, too."

Walking into the open doorway, Steve and Andrea momentarily linked glances before simultaneously rounding on Brenda.

"It's just, Hannah really wants to see you -"

"Yeah, so does Maddie -"

"And you've already seen Dylan, anyway -"

His head jerked in reply, reignited hurt flickering through an unwavering stare.

Brenda turned her expression downward, determined to avert four gazes focused solely on persuasion.

"Unless you're also trying to avoid Kelly."

"David and Donna couldn't even be here. You still haven't seen their kids."

"And Nat's making a pie."

"Nat's always making a pie," she hastily pointed out.

"But not when your brother's here and wants to share Nat's famous peach pie with his sister before she flies all the way back to London," Brandon added helpfully - or unhelpfully, depending on the individual mindsets currently congregated in the room.

"Yeah, when you disappear on us again," Dylan murmured.

"You four are the actual worst, you know that?" Brenda remarked, frustration peaked with their guilt trip.

"I'm just good at cajolery," Andrea replied, "nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah and I have an adorable kid who you say you love but rarely see," said Steve.

"That's low, Steve."

"It's necessary, Bren."

"So?" Andrea prompted.

"So," Brenda replied, "you all suck and you can pick me up at the community theatre in Santa Maria on Friday night, okay?"

"Yes!" cheered Andrea and Steve in unison, smacking their hands together to form a high-five.

"Wait, Bren, are you performing in Santa Maria on Friday?" Brandon asked.

She nodded.

"Well, then why don't we all just come see you? I should be out by then."

"Hell yeah!" Steve said. "We can make it a group trip and bring her home afterward so she can finally spend some time with the kids."

"You don't have to do that," Brenda replied, nervously shifting her feet.

"Well, maybe we want to," said Dylan, adding under his breath just loudly enough for her to hear, "and then some of us might actually be able to talk to you."

Brenda could usually read Dylan as easily as he could analyze poetry - a difficult feat, for understanding pointless poetry unorganized into a script never came easy to her - but in that moment, she remained Cher Horowitz levels of clueless.

"What, all of you?" Brenda asked, outwardly ignoring his perplexing temperament whilst inwardly debating if he simply missed their friendship.

"Sure, why not?" replied Andrea. "Steve and I, Dylan and Brandon, the Silvers and Kelly. I'm sure we can get Erin to babysit again. It'll be like old times. I mean," she paused, "if you're okay with us bringing Kelly."

Brandon's oceanic eyes sparkled at the mere mention of her name.

Brenda sighed, her plan to face California and leave intact crumbling with every suggested idea her well-meaning and tremendously irritating friends hurled into the atmosphere.

"Yeah, whatever, bring Kelly."

"Great!" Andrea smiled, "It'll be so good to have the gang back together again to see you perform. We're all so proud of you, you know."

"You are?" she asked, desperately clinging to a shaky resolve that would shatter if she dared to cry.

Brenda convinced herself when she moved to London that none of her old friends would miss her. Their dynamics hung precariously at California University, with the exception of Andrea, whose relationship and pregnancy kept her separate from the harrowing drama and Dylan, who shared that he still loved her but not in the way that she confessed to loving him.

That is, until he unexpectedly appeared at the Lyceum two years later and their dance began again with a final conclusion.

Or what he claimed as the final time, since the man who insisted their lives would be devoid of all contact if he exited her flat presently stood in the same room with evidently no inclination to leave.

That may have been due to Brandon, she acknowledged.

"Yes," Steve said, "we are, though none more so than Donna."

"I beg to differ," Brandon said, "if anyone's the proudest of Brenda, it would be her only brother right here."

"Only brother?" Steve asked, lifting one blond eyebrow.

"Biological twin brother," Brandon added.

"I don't know, man," his friend replied, "if you haven't scanned every play on the West End trying to find Brenda's name so you can post it on the fridge, then you haven't reached the Donna Silver stage of proud."

"I'm on Donna's fridge?" she asked.

"Not at the moment, no. It's covered in the kids' daycare artwork, but during the summer? Bren, you were all over that fridge."

"Is that why Dylan spent the entire summer avoiding the Silver place?" Andrea whispered to Steve.

Dylan's head whipped up, vigorously shaking in an attempt to prevent his ex-girlfriend from overhearing.

Unfortunately for him, she did hear the loud whisper and immediately concluded Andrea's inquiry as proof of his disinterest in her life.

"Let me get this straight. Donna featured me all over her fridge and Dylan purposely didn't go to her house for a whole summer because of it?" Brenda asked.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Andrea answered, placing her face into her hands with a quake of cotton layered shoulders.

"No, it's fine," Brenda replied, "I mean, it solidifies what I already thought."

Dylan looked directly into her eyes, tilting his head to the side.

"And what, exactly, do you think?" he asked.

"That you hate me," she stated candidly.

"God, Bren, you have no idea, do you?" he breathed, fists clenched at his side.

"Much as I'm intrigued by this rerun of the Dylan and Brenda saga," Steve cut in, "can I get a moment alone with Brandon? Holly says his PT will show up within the hour."

"Of course," Brenda replied, turning to place a kiss on her brother's cheek, "I should probably be getting back, anyway."

"We'll drive you," said Dylan.

"We will?" asked Steve.

The two men began to communicate in hand motions and eye contact.

"I can drive her," Andrea said, "I have an interview up in Pismo. It's on the way."

"You're interviewing for something?" Brandon asked.

"No, Brandon. I'm interviewing someone for a story."

"Yeah, I figured," he replied with a pat on her shoulder.

Whispering statements of affection and promising to not foil their plan, however much it concerned her, Brenda embraced Brandon and Steve once more. Taking Andrea's hand, the women departed, leaving one incredibly frustrated surfer behind in their wake.


	5. Chapter 5

_(Asked their favorite couple in the series:)_ **"I'll answer first, I'll jump in here and some would say this, uh, would be a hard answer, but for me, uh - Dylan and Brenda. And I wanted to say that 'cause I wanted to bring this up that … here's the deal, none of us are up here today without Shannen."** _(speaks sweetly about Shan, Jennie cuts in at one point.)_ **"The deal is, though, the reality is she's a very big part of the success of that program. And I, I - when I say it, I - I mean it, we wouldn't be here without her. Before our characters got together [KD,] that - that was - that was the romance, you know, on the show."** _(speaks sweetly of Shan again.)_ **\- Luke (RIP!)**

"Can we talk about Dylan and Kelly now?" - Tori

" **Well, and then there comes dessert." - Luke**

\- RewindCon, November 2016

_(So is Luke saying Bren was the whole meal and Kelly was just the "sweet," but extremely unhealthy dessert? I'd call that sweet justice.)_

xx

A waning sun shadowed the architectural ruins of Phthia, highlighting the mood of its most tragic resident. Mournful cries filled the room, tapering off before they reached the point of overreaction.

"'Only beware lest they fall upon us twain in some lonely spot upon the road and force me from thee.'"

The words drifted through a captivated audience, a substantial number of whom sat on the edges of their seats in sheer anticipation of the lamenting widow's next step.

"...when they see thy age, my weakness, and this child's tender years; take heed to this, that we be not a second time made captive, after escaping now.'"

"'Forbear such words, prompted by a woman's cowardice,'" he began, fading from her concentration until he concluded, "'For e'en an old man, be he brave, is worth a host of raw youths; for what avails a fine figure if a man is coward?'"

They exited and remained in the wings, until the chorus' final chant.

Brenda walked onto the stage for curtain call, bowing to tremendous applause. Extensive cheers permeated the air, prompting her to take a second bow and bob in a slight curtsy for extra effect.

She gleefully jumped into the arms of her fellow thespian as they congratulated each other on a job well done.

Once in her dressing room, Brenda prepared to remove her costume. Startled into swiftly readjusting her ensemble when a knock sounded at the door, she called for the intruder to come in.

"Brenda," said Theo, popping in his head, "some people are asking if you would be willing to sign a few autographs."

"Autographs?" she asked, eyes squinched in skepticism, "I didn't expect to be asked for autographs over here."

"You're a West End star and didn't think that would translate to global fame?"

"Global fame?" she queried, stunned.

"At least with the audience out there."

He left her to ponder the idea of being a global superstar. It seemed an exaggeration, for her fame surely lacked outside of the theatre world.

Brenda changed into her street clothes and went to greet her fans.

She embellished her signature onto a program, eyes trained on the loops of her name.

"Yeah! Brenda! Way to go!"

"Bren, you were amazing!"

"So glad we were able to come, Brenda. You were prodigious."

"Andrea, can't you just say she was cool?"

"That wouldn't be adequate diction, Steve."

"Whatever you say, Professor Zuckerman."

Brenda glanced up with a wide grin, seeing her friends traipse towards her.

"So, are you my adoring fans?" she asked teasingly.

"After that performance?" Steve said. "Forget adoring fan; I'm your number one fan."

"Get in line, pal," said Brandon, gathering his sister to kiss the side of her head.

"So you lads did make it," she replied, her smile broadening.

"Of course we made it," said Steve, holding out a bouquet arranged with several flowers native to California. "And I think I've figured out a way for at least one of us to always be at your performance."

She expressed her gratitude to the group and held the aromatic arrangement up to her nose, inhaling deeply.

Sweet California poppies.

"That's lovely, Steve, but inessential; I mean, you all have kids and -"

"Nonsense," Andrea waved off, "Erin is a perfectly capable baby-sitter we already enlist regularly and do you honestly believe we aren't going to grab every possible moment with you?"

"Silver," corrected Kelly Taylor with a slight smile.

Brenda looked at the group, who all wore determined expressions. She brought their bouquet closer in hopes of disguising her swelling emotion.

"Now," Steve continued, "we need one representative for each of your productions and someone needs to stay on hand to keep an eye on Brandon."

"Hang on, Steve, I'm sure I -"

"Yeah right, B," Dylan snorted, "we just got you back. Really think we'll let you be on your own?"

Brenda and Brandon exchanged silent communication.

"Minnesota Twins telepathy alert!" said David Silver, waving to get their attention.

The former videographer-turned-recording artist appeared considerably older than in their last interaction, primarily because he'd still been quite young at the time.

His wife Donna shook her head.

Brenda moved forward to embrace the Silvers, with her brother, Steve and Andrea hurrying forth to join the three.

In her peripheral vision, she observed Kelly regarding the group with a forlorn expression and Dylan's steady focus on the stage.

"Get in here, guys!" Brandon called.

They glanced at each other, stalled a moment and then came swooping in, the last pieces to Beverly Hills' off-kilter human Tetris.

"Eight. There's eight of us," Steve said, "eight people who have been and will always be family, okay? No matter how far apart we live," his gaze flickered to Brenda, "or how badly we screw up," he winked at Dylan, "or how many kids we have," he let out a yelp of pain after receiving slight whacks from the Silver spouses, "this, right here, it's our home and there isn't a damn person in the universe who can take that from us, ever again."

"Never again," agreed the alumni of West Beverly High.

"I'm just glad you didn't give that speech before I had to go on," Brenda said, separating as she used the edge of her hand to wipe underneath her eye.

Brandon laughed and hugged her to his side, with Donna gently clutching her other arm.

"God, Bren," she said, "I can't believe you're actually here."

"I can't believe it myself," Brenda said.

"I third that," said Brandon.

"Yeah? Well, I fourth it," added Steve, swinging an arm around his friend's shoulder.

"I fifth, sixth and seventh it," said Dylan, "and therefore, I win."

"Well, I eighth it," chimed David.

They all looked at him.

"What?" he said, "Steve did say there's eight of us."

Brenda giggled and granted the younger man a second embrace.

"So anyway, Bren," said Steve, "it's admittedly gonna be trickier the farther you get up the coast, but NorCal isn't for another what, six weeks?"

She nodded, sandwiched between two Silvers reluctant to let her go.

"Right, so you have a performance every Saturday afternoon and some Friday evenings, with Sundays for sure off. That means we can have someone in Santa Maria, San Luis Obispo and someone with a jet in San Fran and Santa Rosa."

"A jet? That seems a bit over-the-top," Brenda said, concerned about the environmental impact of her San Francisco performance if one or more of her friends insisted on flying out.

"It's a six hour drive up to San Fran," Steve pointed out, "and that's -"

"Without traffic," replied the group in unison.

"Hey, buddy, pretty sure SF locals hate having their city called San Fran," Brandon noted, drumming his fingers along Steve's shoulder.

"Whatever, Brandon, they're NorCal," he brushed off. "Problem is, none of us have a jet," he continued in a frown.

"Iris' partner has a jet," Dylan said, "I'll ask if we can use it."

"Yeah and I can have Jesse check with his friends," added Andrea.

Brenda gaped at the idea of the altruistic woman requesting of her ex-husband to use his connections simply for a performance.

"Don't worry; Jesse and I get along great," Andrea quickly stated, noticing her friend's expression.

"My sister's engaged to some billionaire with a fleet of private jets," said Donna in pensive thought, still clinging to Brenda, "maybe we can persuade them."

"Donna, your sister hates you," she remarked.

"Yeah, but she loves David."

Her husband nodded.

"I'll check with Gina," he said.

"Really, lads, this just seems excessive. There's no need for you to fly north every time I perform," Brenda said, "though I do appreciate the thought, swear."

"Brenda, Brenda, Brenny Bren," Steve replied, placing a hand on the shoulder free of Donna's head, "every time? No, that would be wasteful. I'm thinking more like driving up to Santa Maria and San Luis Obispo, then one, two, three of us fly up for a week or so and fly back."

"But, you all have kids," she tried again.

"Right, so it would have to be someone with a younger kid or sans kids, flexible hours, can work away from the office, maybe doesn't have an office, has the cash for a week's stay in San Fran."

They all turned towards Dylan.

"Oh yeah, that'll go over well," he sniggered, examining the only pair of eyes focused in the opposite direction.

Attempting to hide cheeks stained by more than just makeup, Brenda glanced at a quiet Kelly.

"I can easily take my work with me," noted Donna, who appeared to be mentally playing out a future scenario. "David has no problem watching the kids. Don't you, David?"

"Donna, I've told you before," he replied with a smile, "you can't baby-sit your own kids. It's just called being a parent."

"And I'm pretty free for a while," added Brandon, cuddling Kelly on one side whilst holding Andrea's hand on the other.

"I can stay a bit when the paper covers SF," the latter said.

"Then me and Mads can come up on the weekends," concluded Steve.

"Well," stammered an astonished Brenda, "I mean, uh...thanks."

He bent slightly, leaning his head down to place a kiss on top of hers.

"We love you, Bren."

"And whatever kept you away this long," David added, ruffling her hair, "we want to make sure you know you can always come home, even if it's just for the holidays."

"And even if Brandon isn't around," Donna said.

"Oh, Brando won't be going anywhere," replied Dylan firmly, "not if we can help it."

Overcome with emotion to the point that tears would inevitably build, she was relieved to spot Theo in the crowd.

Waving him over, she turned her gaze to the group.

"Theo, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Theo Fletcher," Brenda gestured proudly, "he's acquainted with my dear friend Shane who persuaded me to join the troupe when they lost their lead at the last minute."

"Wachinski," growled Dylan, almost inaudibly.

"Then we have you to thank for bringing our Bren back," said Steve, gratefully shaking Theo's hand.

"No bother," he replied, "Jammy to get Brenda. She's great craic."

Steve gawked, confused.

"I'll explain later," she told him.

"Brenda," said Theo, motioning for their team to begin tearing down the set, "mind helping Isla with the costumes?"

"Of course not," she replied, swiftly rejecting offers of aid from her friends.

Carrying a pile of costumes to the rented van, Brenda took a moment to compose herself. Even after almost twenty years, the kids from Beverly Hills still managed to mystify her.

Allowing a brief moment alone, she observed the sky fade into an artist's palette and, for the first time, discovered a shred of gratitude for her return to California.

"Kelly?" asked Brenda as she hurried back up the steps, "what are you doing out here?"

"Just thinking," Kelly said, rubbing her elbows.

"About what?"

"Triangles."

"What?" Brenda questioned, visage marred by confusion.

"Or more like squares."

"Not you, too," she groaned.

"What?"

"Brandon. He mentioned something similar."

"Oh," Kelly said.

Eyes that matched the blue of the dress she wore glittered in reply.

"Listen, about Dylan -" she started.

"We don't need to talk about Dylan," Brenda insisted.

"No, Bren, we do need to."

"No, we really don't. Look, forget about it, okay? You found a way to have them both. Brandon is still madly in love with you and you have Dylan's son."

"Brenda, did your brother tell you about when we miscarried?" Kelly said quietly.

"Yeah, he mentioned it a few times."

"They told me I was unlikely to ever bear children," Kelly reminded her with a sad half-smile.

"Yeah, but the doctors were wrong. You have Sammy."

"No, Brenda, they weren't."

"They weren't what?"

"Wrong."

"Kel, what are you saying?"

"Look, just talk to Dylan, okay?"

"I can't promise that, Kelly."

"Bren, if you fly back to London without hearing him out, you're going to regret it," she sighed, "kind of like I do."

"You regret not listening to Dylan?" asked Brenda, confounded.

"I regret a lot of things," she replied, "but none of them come close to how much I wish I hadn't stolen your boyfriend in high school."

"Kelly, are you high?" inquired a startled Brenda, searching for signs of drug use.

"Brenda, of course not."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm not high. I've been clean for forever. This is just years of therapy talking."

"You've been in therapy? I thought you said you'd never go back after Jackie dragged you."

"You think I'd be able to function after everything I've been through without therapy?" Kelly asked skeptically.

"I mean, I don't know the details, but what Brandon did tell me - yeah, therapy was probably a good idea. But, babe, I think you've overpaid your therapist. You didn't steal him. As I recall, he came willingly."

"Bren, please just let me talk without bringing in the twenty-first century feminism, okay?" Kelly begged, planting herself on a concrete step lining the building.

"It isn't just the twenty-first century; women have been trying to tell us for decades that -"

"Brenda, one day I hope to be married to your brother and unless you're about to morph into Andrea and start spouting the history of feminism, this needs to be said before Brandon and I make it anywhere near an aisle."

She ceased the planned monologue, sliding down beside her former friend.

"I had a choice," Kelly began, "yeah, Dylan did too, he absolutely did and I can see now that he made the wrong one, but you were my best friend and my sister, even before Donna. Let's not sit here and pretend I didn't demolish the girl code or that I didn't ask him out when you first started dating. I tried to stop it, I did, but Bren, if I really wanted to stop it, then we never would have started. I asked him at that hotel, you know? I asked him if he only wanted me because you weren't there and he couldn't even give me a straight answer."

Concentrating on Kelly's confession, Brenda's imagination drifted towards the evening she declined an invitation to Jack McKay's party at the Bel Age Hotel and what may have transpired instead if she'd gone.

"I should've ended it then, but I didn't. Brandon said I was like his sister, Kyle was gay, Steve wanted me but I didn't want him, Jake vanished, you and Donna were in Paris, and then there was the beach club, a volleyball tournament and Dylan, equally lonely Dylan."

Brenda debated the appropriateness of excusing herself in search of a water bottle for the rapidly crumbling spring princess.

"Bren," she continued, "I know I haven't been the greatest at showing it, but I really do love you. You and your family helped me through so much, especially in high school, everything with my mom, getting David for a brother which I really hated and it's so silly now because I can't picture life without him or Mel. Look how I repaid you."

"Kel, we don't have to go into it more than you already did. People keep trying to talk to me about teenage mistakes - I don't know, maybe too much sun negatively affects the mind or maybe having Brandon back is screwing with everyone. I think it's better if we all just move on."

"I don't want to move on from you, Brenda," she replied softly. "Except for Donna and Andrea, I've never been too great at making friends with other women. Not like you. I'd known Donna for ages, but you were the first real friend I ever had and I didn't realize at the time how important that is. When all the stuff happened with Colin and then - and then Allison, God, I can't tell you how much I wanted to call you. I don't expect us to be the same as we were, but we're grown women and we've both experienced a lot. We love the same people. It's stupid to keep ignoring each other. Can we at least try to be friends?"

Brenda chewed her lower lip, turning the question repeatedly through her mind. In a plethora of vivid dreams about returning to California, she never envisioned such a moment. They were indeed older and understood shared trauma, Kelly most of all. She acknowledged a refreshed dynamic between the two would certainly allow for simpler interactions within the group and significantly less discomfort for their mutual friends.

"You know what, Kelly?" she began.

The other woman winced, arms tensed in the manner of a high-ranked general discussing a strategic attack for an ongoing war.

"I'd actually," Brenda hesitated, "really like that."

Kelly tossed an arm around her back, gratitude shining through watery eyes.

"You might want to consider doubling your therapist's pay," Brenda said, eliciting a laugh from the blonde.

"Thank you, Bren," she replied as they tilted their respective heads until Brenda's lay on Kelly's shoulder.

"I hope I won't regret this, Kel."

"You won't. I swear."

Kelly stood and squeezed Brenda's hand.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, removing a hairbrush from her purse and smoothing out the flyaways, "I believe Brandon is waiting."

Brenda smiled, turning her head to watch Kelly flounce off and skip past a shadowy figure leaning against the building.

"Hey," said the shadow, stepping closer.

"Hi."

"You were incredible in there."

"Thanks."

"I heard you talking to Kelly," Dylan confessed, his unsteady hand moving to grasp the metal rail above her head.

"How much did you hear?" inquired Brenda as she jumped to her feet.

"Just the end," he said quickly, "glad you two worked it out."

"Yeah," she replied, moving to reenter the theatre.

"Brenda," said Dylan, bolting between his ex and the doorway, "can we - can we work it out?"

"Work out what, Dylan?" she asked.

"This tension between us," he replied, motioning first to himself and then to the headstrong woman halted in her strides.

"What tension?"

"Brenda," he scowled, "don't do that."

"Do what?" she replied, innocence weaving through her countenance.

"You know what."

She fiddled with her bracelet.

"Kel said we need to talk."

"She's right, Bren," he replied, peering into her wary gaze, "we do need to talk. I've tried to tell you."

"What, about your son? My life is going wonderfully without learning the sordid details of his conception, thanks."

"Brenda. Just hear me out, please? I will literally stand here and beg you, if that's what it takes."

She glowered, locking her arms tightly against her chest.

"Fine, but be quick."

Dylan allowed a relieved half-smile and walked towards her.

She stepped away, nearly slamming her backside into a pole.

He paused in place, lips folding into a frown, and slid a quavering hand through brunet locks flattened significantly in contrast to the high hair of his adolescence.

"Bren, when we heard about Brandon, it was like our universes collapsed - Kel's especially. She convinced herself she was cursed. We had Sanders and Andrea and the Silvers, but the one person we both wanted to talk to was half a world away and wouldn't return our calls."

"So you slept together," she interjected.

"We hung out."

"And had sex."

"Platonically."

"You platonically had sex?"

"No! Dammit, I didn't hook up with Kel, okay?" he said, bringing his hands together.

"Pretty sure you have to hook up to make a baby, Dylan," she replied tersely.

"Not this baby," he countered.

"Look, there's no point in doing this, especially here. I'm just gonna -"

"Sammy isn't my son, Bren," Dylan said, rushing to stop her. "He's my nephew."

Effectively stilled by his words, Brenda's eyebrows creased in bemusement.

"Yeah, okay, so Brandon's magic sperm crossed the ocean and implanted itself in Kelly? That's ridiculous, Dylan."

"He isn't Brandon's."

"Kel slept with Steve?"

"No."

"Dylan, you can't honestly expect me to stand here and believe David cheated on Donna with her best friend Kelly. They're like siblings."

"That's repulsive."

"Do you have other brothers I don't know about?"

"Goddamit, Brenda, will you stop playing Nancy Drew and let me explain?"

Unbothered to camoflauge vexation, she flicked her hand as an indication for Dylan to continue.

"After they got engaged - again - Brandon and Kel talked adoption. They had a kid lined up all ready to go."

"Yeah," she said, "I remember. He was really excited to be a dad."

"And then he disappeared," said Dylan, his throat caving in a hard swallow.

Brenda felt the prickled skin that served as an intimate, unwanted companion during her brother's absence. Despite the balmy evening, her hands folded together for warmth.

"Well, the adoption agency wasn't too happy with letting Kel adopt as a single parent sans golden boy, what with her drug history and everything. She tried other agencies, but they all said their hands were tied. She was getting desperate."

"So she slept with Steve and you're," Brenda paused in bewilderment, "raising his kid? Does Steve know?"

"Brenda."

"Right, sorry. Go on."

"Do you remember Erica?"

"Erica? Your little sister? Yeah, I remember her. I think Brandon helped her out once. She was a sweet kid. I liked her a lot."

"Yeah. She liked you, too."

"What does your sister have to do with this?"

"Everything," he spoke slowly, dragging out the word.

"I don't get it."

"Erica showed up at my door about five, six months after Brandon disappeared. She was in a real bad way, Bren."

"What do you mean, Dylan?"

"I mean her shithead boyfriend kicking her out, trying to stay clean, four months pregnant, the whole enchilada. Desperately needed money and the last thing she wanted was to be a mother. Talked about giving up the kid for cash when it was born."

"What? Erica sold her child?"

"No, Brenda," he replied pointedly. "My sister did not sell her baby, okay? We wouldn't let her."

"We?"

"Kel really wanted a kid; Erica didn't. It was a simple solution."

Brenda's jaw slackened, emitting a soft gasp in the dawning of concealed truth.

"Sammy is -" she said, unable to speak through a rapidly dehydrating throat.

"Yeah, Bren," he said, head moving up and down in repetitive fashion, "You get it now?"

She placed both hands over her mouth.

"I - I think so," Brenda hesitated.

Dylan emphatically waved one extended hand, gesturing for her to continue.

"Sammy is Erica's son," she breathed whilst a weight rivaling Stonehenge lifted off of her chest.

"Well done, Nancy."

"But if Sammy is adopted, how come everyone said -"

One hand subconsciously drifting towards her elbow, Dylan barreled on.

"Kel stayed with Erica down at my place in Baja until the kid was born. She came back with this brown-eyed baby, they all knew we'd spent time together and it was long after he could've been Brandon's. They hadn't seen her enough before Baja to know if she rounded out. Our well-meaning, clueless friends put two and two together and got sixteen. Made it easier - no red tape, no questions. I didn't have to lose another person in my family; Kel finally got her kid. Erica wouldn't say who the father was. We put my name on the birth certificate in case he came looking later and decided to raise Sammy together, platonically," he said, an extra punch sounding through the last word.

"You never told anyone?"

"What was the point? Brandon was gone. None of us knew if he'd be back. Andrea might've noticed something if it were any other time, but not with the divorce, Brando and dealing with Rose's illness one on top of the other. Kel was alone. You were probably macking on Euston."

"Who's Euston?"

"Who's Euston?" he repeated, examining Brenda in rapt disbelief.

"Am I supposed to know who Euston is?"

"You're kidding me, right? Euston. Euston Vaughn? The guy you dumped me for?"

"Oh my god," Brenda said, her features displaying slow recognition, "I haven't seen Euston since the nineties."

"You haven't?" Dylan asked.

"Euston Vaughn moved to Geneva the year after you left. He's an instructor at the Grand Théâtre de Genève. We just kind of lost touch. Guess I'm good at that."

He stumbled against the theatre's stucco wall, gobsmacked.

"You don't even talk to the guy you dumped me for?"

"I didn't dump you for Euston, Dylan."

"Sure felt like it, Bren."

"Was I supposed to just accept your jealousy every time you saw me with another man? Men I worked with?" she asked, bristling.

"No," he hesitated, "no, that wasn't fair to you."

"Yeah," she replied in surprise, recollecting herself, "it wasn't."

Dylan played with her fingers.

"I can't be this fantastic rom-com guy and tell you that I've always loved you because it wouldn't be true. That day in London - you really hurt me, Bren."

"And you hurt me," she quietly countered.

"Yeah, I know. I was a stupid, jealous asshole and I'm sorry, okay?"

The unexpected apology caused her heart rate to gain enough speed that it could easily power a jet ski.

"Wow," she murmured. "I - thank you. Uh, listen, I'm not going to apologize for what I did, but I am sorry for the way I did it. I never should've slammed the door in your face."

"Well," he said, lips smacking together in deep contemplation, "I probably deserved that."

"No, you didn't. And Dylan, you don't have to apologize. It was a long time ago. We're -"

"Bren, I've kept this to myself Maddie's entire life. Really don't want to still be thinking about it when she's in high school."

"We've a while until that, Dylan."

"Just let me finish, okay?"

Placing an imaginary lock on her lips and tossing the invisible key over her shoulder, she stood silently.

Dylan's breath exhaled in shaky spurts. Gently, his fingers slowly cupped around Brenda's wrist.

She tilted her head downward, eliminating eye contact. He moved his own head to make avoidance impossible.

"I was so scared people like Shane Wachinski and Euston Vaughn were going to take you away from me that I let them do exactly that. But it wasn't their fault, Bren. It was mine. You were right. I thought I trusted you, but truth is, I didn't. Hell," he scoffed, "after my dad and Toni and you moving to a whole other country? I didn't trust anyone."

"Not even me," she replied, downcast in a flood of memories.

"Especially not you," he murmured. "The thought of losing you, again? It killed me."

"If I meant that much to you," Brenda replied in a small, almost childlike voice, "why did you choose Kelly?"

"I didn't choose Kelly," he said, his tone firm.

"You chased after her when you returned to Beverly Hills and officially got back together with her at Donna's wedding, Dylan. Everyone knows that."

"Bren, you made it pretty clear we were over and I knew I couldn't go back down that road. I couldn't pine, either. Kel was easy. It wasn't like high school or CU. Brandon was in DC; you were overseas. We didn't have to be alone. We didn't fight - not as much as we used to, anyway. It was alright, at first."

Her back stiffening, Brenda formulated a hasty exit from the purportedly poetic history of Dylan McKay and Kelly Taylor.

"Then came the Brendas."

"I'm sorry, the Brendas?" she said, carefully planned strategy vanishing in the way of bubbles through blades of grass.

"Yeah, the Brendas, the Brandons. You Walshes climbed into our bed and didn't even know it."

"Thanks for the visual," she groaned, vigorously shaking out his mental portrait from her mind.

"Kel started to moan Brandon's name in her sleep. I confronted her. She said I did the same with yours. We both agreed the soulmate thing was bullshit or maybe it's not, who knows and honestly Bren, who cares? What's the point of being soulmates if you're miserable? We were looking for something neither could give the other. She reconnected with Brando, flew off to DC and I - went to London to punch Shane Wachinski."

"You did what?" Brenda asked, stunned.

"Kidding," he replied, giving a slight chuckle.

"I was gonna say -"

"I took a job with a surf school in Baja. Went down to Pichilemu for a few months."

"Steve said you haven't left California."

"Sanders has a selective memory."

Overwhelmed by the multitude of confessions and apologies laid upon her in a single night and in the week since she arrived in California, Brenda tried to keep her composure.

"Then Brandon's assignment sent him off to Le Côte d'Ivoire. Steve told us about Janet; Andrea divorced. They were both struggling. David and Donna tried to help, but there was only so much they could do with the kids. Kel moved back and you know the rest."

"Were you ever going to tell anyone?"

"Yeah. We're planning to tell Sammy when he's a little older so he won't find out the way Steve did. Bottom line is, he's a great kid and we both love him. I think you would, too."

Her arms began to shake, heart rattling in her chest.

"What does that mean?" she asked, voice bordering on a squeak.

"It means I'm not willing to spend the rest of my life without you in it, even if it's only as my friend," he replied definitively. "Twice now, I've known a life apart from you and it's not one I want."

Shell-shocked, she considered his words.

"So now that you know Kel and I didn't betray another Walsh, I sure as hell didn't knock her up and I'm not the worst person in the world," he said, inching an arm around Brenda's neck to place it directly beneath her hair, "can I please get a damn hug? Everyone else has."

"I never thought you were the worst person in the world," Brenda's lowered voice replied.

"No?" he queried with a cock of his head.

"Well," she continued, gradually breaking into a beaming smile, "maybe in my world."

Noticeably relieved, Dylan pulled her to him. Feeling Brenda relax into his embrace, he held her closely.

"I missed you," Dylan said, voice muffled against her hair.

"I missed you, too," she whispered, allowing her tears to meld with the fabric of his denim jacket.

xx

[*Dialogue from Euripides' _Andromache_.]


End file.
